Part 8

But Johnny pulled through the night without mishap and, worn and haggard, as morning dawned, he found himself upon the banks of the Batolan. Here he knew he must stop until nightfall. A white man’s head bobbing up and down in the stream would have made too good a target for even Filipino marksmen, wretched shots though they are, to miss at such easy range. It would have been suicidal to attempt to swim the river in broad day light, besides, at that point the current was too swift for a tired man to breast. Johnny was nearly exhausted, so after a bite from the small store in his haversack and a pull at his canteen he laid down amid the bamboos that fringed the river bank to await nightfall with what patience he could.

Tired as Johnny was, he did not dare sleep. The day was excessively warm and it was not easy to keep awake, but under the stimulus of several parties of Filipinos of whom he caught a glimpse at various times as they passed to and fro on the hill sides upon the opposite side of the stream, he managed to fight off the drowsiness with which his fatigue and the tropic heat combined to overpower him. He did not dare to even light his pipe, the soldier’s consolation, lest he attract the attention of the enemy, and with nothing to help him while away the hours the day seemed almost interminable.

But the fiercely glowing red ball of the sun finally sank behind the hills to westward, and the tropic twilight mist began to rise from brake and stream. Not far from the bank opposite the spot where Johnny lay concealed, he noted through the gathering shadows the twinkle of lights upon the opposite hillside and the glow of what appeared to be a camp fire, and said to himself, “I reckon that must be Masillo, an’ if it is I’m pretty close to that d--d brown belly’s headquarters. It won’t do to let him see me first. We hain’t been introduced and he might cut me.”

Rising to his feet and pulling himself together, “just to get the kinks out,” Johnny crept cautiously through the brake up stream, with the intention of crossing at a point which would be safer from detection by the enemy. He had traversed the river bank about a mile, when he noticed that the river had widened out considerably and was dotted here and there by a number of broad, low lying, bamboo covered islands, their outlines being clearly discernible in the light of the gorgeous moon which was just rising. “This ought to be a good place to get across,” he thought. “I’m likely to find bottom part of the way, an’ the walkin’ must be purty fair on them islands.”

Divesting himself of all his clothing and accouterments save his belt and lariat, Johnny rolled his effects into as compact a form as possible, and with his bundle under his arm waded out toward the nearest island. The water rose only to his waist, and although it was hard to keep his footing in the swift running current, he was not long in reaching his destination. The brake was so dense upon the island that he found it easier to traverse its lower shore to the opposite side. Between the first island and the next one, a little further down stream, the water was deeper and swifter than before, and our soldier had to swim for it. When he reached the second island he was pretty well blown and was compelled to take a breathing spell. From the second island to the opposite bank the water was very shallow and easily forded, a circumstance of which, as the sequel proved, the Filipinos themselves were fully cognizant, and of which they had showed their appreciation by stationing a reception committee for possible invaders at that point.

Johnny clambered up the bank and pausing in a diminutive clearing near the water, proceeded to leisurely dress himself. He was just stooping to lace his leggings when two forms sprang upon him from the brake, one of them landing upon his back. As he went down under the sudden rush, he was dimly conscious of a heavy cutting blow upon his head. As he struggled with his foes he felt the hot blood streaming down from his temple and into his eyes. He managed to turn face upward as the Filipino bore him to the earth, but for a few seconds he could do no more than grip his man tightly by the body and prevent his striking him with the bolo with which he was armed. The other Filipino tried frantically to land a blow upon the Americano, but without success, as his comrade was most persistently and unwillingly in the way. As soon as his wits returned Johnny, suddenly letting go of his adversary’s body, got a strangle hold on the Filipino’s throat with his left arm, while with his right hand he drew his bowie. Two quick jabs with the knife, and the soldier knew that this part of the drama was over. Practiced wrestler that he was, it was an easy matter to slip from under the limp body, and spring to his feet and bound away to the edge of the little clearing.

Running away was farthest from Johnny’s mind. He wheeled about and faced the second Filipino who, having recovered from his astonishment at the denouement of the struggle in which he had taken a subordinate part, rushed toward the soldier, swinging his terrible bolo with the evident intention of bisecting him post haste. Johnny, nothing loth, awaited the rush, bowie in hand, as calmly as if he were on parade. And then came a dodging and cutting match that was as unfair as a two foot bolo wielded by an uninjured Filipino, opposed to a ten inch blade in the hands of a wounded soldier could make it. But Johnny was an athlete, and his pugilistic training was not lost in such a contest.

In the first mad rush of his foe Johnny was very nearly done for. As he sidestepped to avoid the heavy Filipino blade, his foot slipped and he nearly fell. The weapon missed his head but inflicted a severe wound upon his right shoulder, crippling for the moment his sword arm. Feeling himself growing faint, he soon determined to mix matters with his opponent who, after missing his stroke, had sprung back preparatory to another rush. As the Filipino closed in with a vicious sweep at his enemy’s head, Johnny transferred his knife to his left hand and suddenly ducked under the descending blade squarely into the arms of the Filipino, who instinctively grappled with him, and forever lost the opportunity of using his own weapon. One short-arm swing of the bowie and the Filipino, cut through the chest, hung limp in the soldier’s arms. The weight of his foe bore Johnny to the ground, where he lost consciousness, the two combatants lying locked together like two wild beasts that had fought each other to the death.

All through the night the two men lay motionless upon the ground, to all appearances lifeless. Meanwhile a storm blew up and just as the morning dawned the rain fell in torrents. Johnny had merely fainted from loss of blood, and the cool raindrops beating upon his face revived him. At first, as he became conscious, he had no clear conception of where he was or of what had happened. He had a hazy recollection of a struggle, but not the slightest notion of what it was all about nor with whom or how many he had fought. As his mind gradually recovered itself, however, he remembered all the details of the battle in which, as he now discovered, he had been victorious. Disengaging himself from the body of his late antagonist, he rolled and crawled away a little distance, and finally sat up and looked about the arena in which they had battled.

The Filipino who had first attacked the soldier lay a little distance away, stark dead. The other, however, was still living. As Johnny looked in his direction the body moved unmistakably with a slight convulsive movement of the chest, and a faint groan escaped the lips.

“Hello,” said Johnny, “my friend over there seems pretty lively for a corpse. Sorry I didn’t cut just right. I’d have saved Uncle Sam and Sergeant Blank a lot o’ trouble. I s’pose I’d orter fix the d--d cuss up, story book style, but charity begins at home, and it’s me for first crack at the aid package.”

With this the sergeant proceeded to take account of stock. After a careful survey of his wounds, he dressed and bandaged them as best he could, and took a bracer from the whiskey flask, with which the haversack of the army scout who knows his business is always supplied. He followed the stimulant with a meagre breakfast from his rations.

It was not long before Johnny was strong enough to get upon his feet. The first thing he did was to inspect the wounded Filipino. To facilitate matters he kneeled beside the fellow and rolled him over upon his back. As he glanced at the cruel, savage face, it seemed strangely familiar. Looking at the face more critically, as suspicion of the identity of his fallen foe entered his mind, he brushed back the mat of coarse hair that covered the Filipino’s forehead. There, running transversely across the brow, close to the tangled hair, was a livid, jagged scar of an old time sword stroke. Forgetting his own wounds he sprang to his feet in amazed delight and exclaimed, “Agramonte, or I’m an Indian!”

The Filipino was evidently recovering consciousness. He too, had suffered from a severe loss of blood. Johnny examined his enemy’s wound and found that the blood had clotted and was no longer flowing. He applied a compress and bandage and gave the wounded man a swig of whiskey, with the result that he soon revived sufficiently to recognize his surroundings. If he remembered the encounter that had been so unlucky for him he made no sign. As soon as he became conscious, he ceased groaning and made no sound thereafter. He lay as stolidly as a manikin, his beady black eyes watching every move the soldier made.

Noting that his patient was rounding up nicely, and fearing that he might cry for assistance, Johnny proceeded to make the situation clear to the Filipino. Not daring to use fire arms for fear of bringing a swarm of brown bellies about his ears, he had not yet drawn a revolver. He did so now, however, although with as little intention of using it as ever. Leveling the navy at the wounded man’s head he said: “I don’t know whether you savvy my language or not, Mr. Agramonte, but I reckon you can savvy sign language all right. You saved me a lot o’ trouble when you an’ your partner did the wild cat act on my back. I was sure lookin’ for you, but I didn’t expect to come up with you quite so immediate. Seein’ as how you saved me so much trouble, I’ll give you a tip that’ll save you some. If you open your yap, even to whisper, I’ll scatter your brains all over the province. I’ve got a pressin’ engagement to take you to headquarters, and this is a mighty good place to start from. It’s just about time to mosey, too, for some of your friends is likely to rubber down here to see what’s doin’.”

Agramonte evidently “savvied,” but he contented himself with glaring at his conqueror as some captive savage beast might have done. It required little discernment to guess what he would have done to the Americano, had their respective positions been reversed.

Still menacing the Filipino with the revolver, Johnny compelled him to struggle to his feet as best he could. Unwinding his lariat he put the noose about his captive’s neck. Thinking evidently that he was about to be hanged and thus receive poetic justice, Agramonte would have cried out, had not his captor suddenly tugged at the lasso, thus choking the sound of alarm in his brown throat. The strangling process was quite effective, and when the noose was loosened the prisoner was as docile as could have been desired.

Leaving some six feet of rope between himself and his captive, the sergeant, after adjusting the noose, wound the other end of the lariat about his own body. This done, he said, “Now, Mr. Filipino, you can’t lose me, and if you don’t object we’ll take a little stroll together. Just to be perlite I’ll let you go first, so just mosey right along an’ don’t look back or make any noise. If you bat your eye in a way I don’t like, away’ll go your brains to fertilize the Island of Luzon. It’s us for the river, so skip along, an’ make it lively.”

But making it lively was easier said than done. Neither the prisoner nor the captive was in condition to travel rapidly, and the mere effort of clambering down the river bank was almost the limit of their endurance. But Johnny shut his teeth together like the bars of a steel trap, and pushing the tottering Filipino roughly into the water, waded slowly after him, retracing the same route he had traversed in crossing the river. In their exhausted condition it was not easy for the men to maintain their footing. Agramonte’s feet slipped from under him several times, bringing him face downward on the sand and rocks of the river bed. The soldier, although himself in little better form than his prisoner, by a supreme effort raised the latter to his feet and relentlessly urged him on. The island reached, the two fell exhausted.

As the soldier and his prisoner lay panting upon the ground it seemed to Johnny that rest was the only thing worth living for. He did not dare gratify his inclination in that direction, however. The body of the dead Filipino was likely to be found at any moment, for it was probable that he had been on picket duty, and if so, a relief would probably be sent to that point before long. Pursuit once begun, escape would be well nigh impossible. Should he be captured the soldier knew only too well what would happen. Another ghastly token of Agramonte’s affection would be sent to the American camp.

Staggering to his feet, Johnny fairly dragged his prisoner to a standing posture. He compelled the Filipino to take several swallows of the whiskey, drank a stiff one himself, and driving Agramonte before him continued on his way around the edge of the island. When they arrived at the opposite side, the Filipino, gazing terror stricken at the swift current in mid-stream, stopped short and shook his head in feeble protest against entering the water.

“It does look middlin’ dubious, that’s a fact, an’ it’s goin’ to be a close call, but we’ve got to make it,” said Johnny. “I promised the Captain that I’d land you at the door of his tent, and land you I will. He’d be glad to have your head to even up for poor Jack Kennedy’s, but it’ll please him better if I deliver your ugly carcass to him whole. In with you, d--n you, and no monkey business or I’ll”--and Johnny cocked his revolver, which clicked suggestively.

The Filipino slipped into the water and would have gone down post haste, had not the soldier supported him by his tangle of coarse hair. And then began the supreme struggle. Many times as he battled with the current did Johnny regret that he had not decapitated Agramonte and taken his head into camp. But once in the swift running water he would not weaken, nor would he let go of his prisoner. He resolved that if Agramonte went down, he would drown with him, rather than return to the captain empty handed. Twice the two struggling men were swept under, but thanks to Johnny’s bull dog grit rose again. They were swimming diagonally against the current, and it was almost miraculous that both men were not drowned. Had the middle channel been a few yards wider, they certainly would never have lived to reach the next island.

But reach the island they did, and with a desperate effort Johnny pulled himself upon dry land, dragging his half dead charge after him. After a somewhat longer rest than before, the two again entered the water, and with great difficulty waded to shore on the opposite side of the Batolan. Once the awful strain of crossing the river was over, there was no longer any choice in the matter of resting; both men fell exhausted; Johnny had barely strength enough left to crawl into the brake out of the range of vision of possible stray Filipinos and pull his half dead captive after him.

The sun was well up in the heavens and beating mercilessly down upon captor and captive before Johnny was able to move. He finally managed to get upon his feet again and decided to take a fresh start toward the camp. It seemed safer to take the chance of meeting hostile natives in the jungle in broad daylight, than to remain until nightfall and then run the risk of being found by a searching party of the enemy. The Filipino, however, was unable to rise. He was wounded no more severely than his captor, and surely should have been no worse affected by the fatigue of his journey, but he was a prisoner, and lacked the spirit of a victor, and, like most children of the tropics, he had not the physical nor moral fibre of which strenuous heroes are made. He was certainly “all in,” much to our soldier’s dismay. Urging and threats alike were without avail, and when dragged to his feet the renegade fell to the ground again as limp as a rag. Knowing that camp was but a few hours distant, Johnny’s disgust at the situation was most violent, and he swore in salvos.

“You d--d cut-throat, you’re more trouble than your miserable neck is worth! You might have been game enough to stick to the finish. But you wasn’t, so there you are, an’ I reckon it’s up to me to get you to camp the best way I can. Come, Aggie, old boy, an’ rest on this bosom;” saying which, the soldier helped the Filipino to his feet once more, and half carrying, half dragging the almost helpless man, struck out through the brake.

The will is a wonderful thing;--it conquers worlds,--but no man’s will is so strong that extreme physical weakness will not defeat it. Johnny’s nerve was impregnable, but wounded and fatigued as he was, his physical strength could not withstand the additional strain put upon it by the endeavor to assist the Filipino through the jungle. Then too, his wounds had become inflamed and very painful. He felt alternately hot and cold, and finally had a chill that fairly made his teeth rattle. This was followed by a tremendous fever. The poor fellow felt as though he were on fire. Things began to look queer. From time to time he fancied he saw fantastic shapes amid the brake. Sometimes huge, fiercely snarling animals seemed to brush by him. Again, a Filipino, twice as large as life, leered at him from behind every bush and tree. Once he fancied he saw the huge serpent that had flailed his chest the night he spent in traversing the jungle. Its horrid mouth yawned widely, and he heard it calling in a hoarse roaring voice the multitudinous folk of the jungle. And the soldier knew that the delirium of wound fever was upon him, and feared lest he should lose his senses altogether.

Bad as was his captor’s condition, the Filipino’s was much worse. When nature could stand no more, and Johnny was finally compelled to drop the renegade, it was evident that the latter’s end was in sight. A few drops of whiskey poured down his throat revived him for a brief period, but it was hate’s labor lost, for within the hour Agramonte gave a faint expiring sigh and joined the shades of his brown skinned ancestors.

Johnny had fallen exhausted beside the body of his captive and supporting himself on his elbow had watched, in his lucid intervals, the passing of his chances of delivering the living Agramonte to Captain Benning. The Filipino dead, there was but one thing to be done. The gathering of evidence was as simple as it was gruesome; he drew his knife and decapitated the body, making in his weakened condition, it must be confessed, rather a “hacky,” tearing job of it. The head removed and tied by its long hair to his belt, Johnny rose to his feet and totteringly resumed his journey toward camp.

As our soldier uncertainly blundered on through the brake, his fever rose higher and higher and his delirium increased. There were no longer any lucid intervals, and the direction of his steps was largely a matter of chance. Good luck, rather than volition guided him, but while his course was the proper one, luck was not always with him. Several times his feet became entangled in the undergrowth and he fell heavily. Again, as he struggled to his feet and stumbled blindly on, he crashed against a tree so violently that only the fictitious strength of delirium prevented his being incapacitated from further effort. But every step was bring him nearer his comrades, and nearer the fulfillment of the promise which no longer meant anything to him, poor boy.

* * * * *

The evening relief of sentries had just been made by Company K. The sun had dropped his huge glowing ball of molten copper behind the hills to the west of Masillo. The waning light was playing hide and seek with the flickering, erratic shadows of wood and brake. At the edge of the little clearing just outside the town stood a khaki clad sentry. He was leaning upon his rifle and gazing abstractedly into the jungle, thinking, perhaps, of that rancher’s daughter in far-away Montana. As he stood there musing, his attention was suddenly attracted by a rustling sound amid the undergrowth some distance away. He instantly brought his gun to a ready, and peered excitedly into the jungle. The sound grew plainer.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

A shape as of a man creeping stealthily along through the brake upon his hands and knees became dimly discernible. Again the sentry’s voice rang out.

“Halt, or I fire!”

The shape, now plainly that of a man, crept nearer and still nearer.

The Krag cracked like a huge whip, a thin, filmy cloud of smoke arose from the nitro, and the creeping form in the brake fell forward upon its face without a sound.

“Corporal of the guard, post seven!” shouted the sentry.

The regulation call was unnecessary for, immediately the rifle cracked, a squad of the sentry’s comrades with the corporal at their head rushed to the spot.

“I’ve bagged a brown belly, I think,” said the sentry, waving his hand in the direction of the spot where his quarry had fallen.

The corporal, followed by his men, cautiously approached the spot indicated by the sentry. A few minutes search in the cane and they came upon a body clothed in tattered khaki. Hanging from the belt at the dead man’s side, was the recently decapitated head of a Filipino.

The startled corporal turned the body over upon its back. He gave one horrified glance of recognition at the dead man’s face and exclaimed, “My God! It’s Johnny!”

Tenderly the men in khaki raised the limp form of their fallen comrade and silently bore it past the horror stricken sentry into the camp. Halting before the captain’s tent, they laid the body down and covered it reverently with a blanket.

The corporal approached the door of the tent and addressing his commander, said sorrowfully, his eyes wet with tears, “Sir, Johnny has returned.”

Captain Benning sprang to his feet and exclaimed, “Where is he; why does he not report?”

“He is here, sir,” replied the corporal. The captain went to the door of the tent, and not seeing Johnny, looked at the corporal inquiringly.

The corporal pointed to the body lying almost at the officer’s feet and said, “That’s him, sir.”

The captain raised the blanket, and gazed long and silently at the dead soldier and the gory testimonial of duty performed that lay beside him.

The silence was finally broken by the corporal, who said, as his hand rose slowly in salute--

“Sir, Johnny has made good.”

And the captain replied, huskily:

“Yes, boys, too good.”

MY FRIEND THE UNDERTAKER

I have become quite convinced that the most entertaining man in the world is the undertaker. Now, I do not pretend to say that there is anything original about my observations. Others have in all probability frequently commented on his peculiarities--but I nevertheless feel that it is my duty to give him a little attention in order to repay him, at least in part, for the many favors received at his hands.