Part 7

A distant roar of wind, and an angry cannonade of thunder came from the west, setting the jungle to rocking and tossing overhead, while birds flew wildly through the tree tops, croaking and screeching harshly. Dwight stopped and listened to it. He was trembling all over with the wet cold, and sharp chills were running through him. Now or never was the time for a signal, for no sound would carry far after the rain came. He raised his gun, fired both barrels, and listened with all his ears.

No answer, save the roar of the rain, sounding louder and louder and coming nearer and nearer. He looked about for the largest tree near him and ran for it. The branches of wind-lashed forest were now parting overhead, and out of the dark gray came vivid flashes of lightning which filled the jungle with winking light. The long ropes of creepers which climbed up to the branches of his tree from the jungle floor swung solemnly in the wind, and Dwight crept under them and huddled close against the trunk, cowering in the buttresses of the great roots.

Then came the rain, in furious white sheets that filled the forest with a flying haze. It soaked him instantly to the skin, while peal after peal of thunder went off like cannon shots. An ungovernable terror seized the boy--the fury of the wind-driven rain, the loneliness, the crashing and riving of limbs and branches--and he lifted up his voice in one last, despairing yell with every ounce of lung power that he possessed.

There was no answer--save a low, sibilant hiss, which sounded through the lowering gloom, close at hand, whispering sharp and clear in his ears above the noise of the storm! Dwight, startled with a shiver of fright, looked up, to perceive that one of the great vines overhead was _not_ a creeper, but a huge python, lowering himself steadily, his neck crooked, and his head drawn back to strike at him! His gun flashed to shoulder, and both barrels went off blindly as the boy’s nerves collapsed with the shock of horror and he sank down in a shivering heap. He had a dim feeling of yards and yards of snake tumbling down through the vines beside him, but he seemed not to care about it at all, for it was comfortable down here between these roots ... if he could only find a place for his head....

When he came to it was pitch dark and the storm had gone on. A scampering of jungle rats made off through the black as Dwight moved his cramped limbs wearily, to find them aching all over and his face hot and flushed with fever, while violent chills kept running upward through his body.

He peered about him, bewildered; then conscious ideas began to pelt in upon him.

“F-f-fire! Quick-ick as I can m-make one!” he chattered to himself, fumbling for his pocket flasher. Its small but brilliant light lit up the jungle, causing many an outcry of night birds and a scurrying over the forest floor of land crabs and small marsupials. It also revealed the tumbled heap of the python lying beside him, its neck shot in two and parts of its reticulated length already gnawed by rodents. He glanced at it casually; to get wood that would burn was the real worry now! the jungle was black as a pocket, and a wan mist hung through it. After one flash of the light on those miasmas, drifting like pale death through the trees, Dwight hurriedly got out his medicine kit and swallowed some quinine. Then he sought kindlings in the underbrush, breaking twigs here and there, but they were all sodden and moldy. He felt sick all over and burning with fever, and he wanted to lie down again and sleep forever; but it was most imperative to stay alive, so he started off through the jungle in search of firewood, stumbling westward by compass, until a great tangle of vines ahead of him told of a prone dead tree.

His spirits rose as his eye lit on it, and he pushed his way under the great bole with ready shotgun, for he could not tell how many jungle dwellers might have camped under it during the storm. A grand scampering and creeping rustled the dry leaves under the trunk, but it soon stopped and the flashlight showed the cavelike space all clear. Dwight shouldered his way into it, and at once cleared a space for a fire and began peeling off strips of dry bark from the under side of the tree. Blessed, blessed fire! The one human thing in all this dark jungle! That was the turning point in his mental distress, for dejection gave way to cheerfulness, wandering homelessness to a hearth and a campfire. Soon the warmth of its small blaze penetrated even his chilled bones, and it and the quinine gradually drove off his fever. Dwight waited out the night under the trunk, trying the cave man’s posture of sleep, squatting on his hams with his head resting on arms crossed over his knees (still used by the hill men of India and by many tribes of the Malay Archipelago). He found it not so bad, even though irksome to a white man’s heel tendon. Keeping the fire going with bark and small branches broken from the tree trunk, he gradually dried out, and at length there came the dawn of another day and the jungle awoke to life.

Starting off by compass again, he steered due west, bound in time to strike the brook. It was not for an hour more of traveling that the jungle began to lighten on ahead, and bits of sky, glimpses of mountain side, and the tops of low trees told him he was coming to where the brook skirted the plateau. Dense, thorny underbrush began to block his way now, and beyond it came the rippling murmur of the stream. He shouted for the curator and his party, hoping that he was near enough to camp for his voice to be heard. No answer came, except the sough of the wind over the grasses and bushes of the plateau, so Dwight decided to get out into the open and study the mountains for something familiar. He forced his way to the stream-side and jumped across.

He discovered, from the familiar headlands of the mountain chain, that he was some distance above camp. It seemed well to fire another signal in the open, and he was about to do so when three large birds as big as ostriches jumped from the grass in the swales and began to run, making a scraping, cackling noise something like the wild brush turkey.

“Cassowaries!” exclaimed Dwight, thrilling with adventure again as his gun sprang to shoulder. They were running like deer, their red, wattled heads and bright-blue necks stretched out ahead like giant chickens. His shotgun held only sixes, so Dwight aimed for the speeding head of the nearest cassowary as at a flying quail, swinging ahead and firing like a wing shot.

The cassowary went down, while the other two flapped off in a wild burst of speed, using their wings to aid their legs. Dwight rushed out, intending to finish off his bird with the knife, as he did not wish to injure the skin of the specimen with a close-up shot. The great bird lay in the grass as he came up, its fiery eye looking at him, unconquered, like a rooster that has been worsted in a fight. As he rushed up it flew at him, squawking discordantly. Dwight beat him off with the barrels of his gun. The air seemed full of the great black wings of his adversary, blinding him with blows of the coarse, double-quilled pinions. It never occurred to him that a cassowary could be really dangerous, and he laughed confidently as the heavy bird fell to the ground and prepared to spring again. With the second leap its long blue neck lunged out and its blunt bill caught his shirt collar and held on like a snapping turtle, while its stout legs drummed fiercely on his chest. Dwight felt the canvas of his coat being ripped, and then a sharp pain seared down his breast to the belt like a hot iron. He was now fighting off the cassowary desperately, stabbing blindly, and warding off the blows of the wings on his head with his left arm. The tearing and rending of its legs on his chest kept up with increasing violence, and he was forced to bring his elbows in close to protect his stomach, dropping his knife and grabbing with his hands at the stout feet of the cassowary--anything to prevent being disemboweled!

Then a shiver went through the bird, its eyes fluttered closed, and the grip of its bill loosened, while the boy tugged himself free. He jumped for his knife in a battling rage, intending to close in and finish his adversary, who was now kicking feebly, when he heard a shout, and turned to see Sadok and the curator come running across the swales. A sumpitan dart sticking in the bird’s side told all!

“Did he hurt you?” yelled the curator, sprinting toward him. “Don’t ever go near a wounded cassowary, you darn fool!” he exploded, wrathfully, as he came up. “Don’t you know they’re more dangerous than a kangaroo? Look!”

He stooped and held up the bird’s claw. On the inside toe was a long hooked talon, curved and sharp as a tiger’s claw.

“Did he get you with it?” demanded the curator, looking at him anxiously, for Dwight still stood looking at him, speechless, holding to his chest with his left hand.

“Guess he did!” gasped the boy, swaying weakly. He lifted his hand and his fingers ran red with blood.

“Catch him, Sadok!” warned the curator as his own hand dove for the first-aid in his hip pocket. Dwight leaned against Sadok’s strong shoulder, while the curator opened his shirt and examined the wound hastily. Two long gashes in his chest bled rather freely, but nothing serious had been cut.

“Lucky for you, son! He’d have ripped you open just as nice! Lots of new-chums have been killed that way!” said the curator, cheerfully.

“Lie down awhile; you’ll feel better presently,” he ordered, for Dwight was white as a sheet. “But, congratulations, boy, first of all, on your getting back to us! I had not time to say so, you know, in the excitement of this ruction,” he apologized. “We’ll have to hunt in pairs in the future. Where have you been, Dwight, and why did you stay out all night?”

“It was worth it!” smiled the boy, feebly, and he dug into his coat pocket and brought out the six-shafted bird of paradise, carefully swathed in his handkerchief.

The curator undid the fastenings; then a whoop of joy escaped him.

“Boy!” he beamed, reaching forward to shake Dwight’s hand again. “It sure _was_ worth it! Man, it’s the big prize of the expedition--so far!”

He and Sadok then fired shots and called until they brought Nicky and Baderoon out of the jungle. Nicky came up on the run.

“Where’s Dwight? What’s happened?” he cried, anxiously; then, catching sight of Dwight: “You--old--hatrack!” he burbled, flinging himself affectionately on his chum. “Say, the whole camp was worrying about you and firing guns, last night! Get lost in the jungle?”

“Nope. He got--this!” cut in the curator, holding up the flaming glories of the paradise bird for Nicky to admire. “And then--a cassowary tried to scrape an acquaintance with him, so to speak!” He laughed, pointing out the huge bird lying in the grass, with Sadok working over his skin.

“And, b’lieve me, your li’l’ old dart got there just in time!” chirped Dwight from the grass. “Shake, Sadok!”

“Make a stretcher out of a couple of coats and two poles, boys!” ordered the curator, energetically, as Sadok finished the cassowary skin with a grunt of satisfaction. “We four’ll tote him to camp. How about Camp Cassowary for a name for this stop, hey, boys?”

VIII

PYGMY LAND

“This is not an expedition--it’s getting to be a hospital!” exclaimed the curator, whimsically, as Dwight was tucked away under his own tent fly. “Baderoon’s arm is still game, and Dwight will be at least three days getting healed up--yet. Did you ever see such glorious country to move about in, or such wonderful weather?”

Nicky agreed with him. He had collected in British Guiana and the West Indies, yet this was the first time he had been free of the eternal green maze of the deep jungle. Up here, high on the mountain flanks, it was hot and dry, and the vegetation was more like the open African veldt. Across the creek, to the east, and down into the lowlands, swept the damp jungle; back of camp, to the west, rose the mountain sides, inviting them irresistibly to climb up and see what might be seen from their tops.

Dwight’s adventure with the cassowary had upset their plans badly. There was no telling how soon he could move, for wounds in the tropics have an aggravating way of infecting and becoming obstinate about healing. The curator chafed over the delay, scarce daring to hope that the dry, breezy climate of the mountains would bring a swift closing of the scratches of the cassowary’s claw. He considered, meanwhile, the advisability of setting out with Nicky on a scouting tour, leaving Sadok and Baderoon to guard the camp. He finally decided to risk a day’s absence.

“Dwight,” said he, coming over to the boy’s tent after making up his mind, “Nicky and I are going to climb this mountain back of us, and do some mapping and exploring from its top. We’ll be gone all day, and possibly the night, too. It’s taking a chance, to break up our party this way, I know, but half our time has already gone by since the proa left, and we must be up and doing. I’m leaving you the most deadly weapon I’ve got.” He pulled out a bright, shiny, nickel bomb from a flap case on his belt. It seemed very light and fragile to Dwight as he handled it.

“I call it the ‘explorer’s bomb,’” said the curator. “It’s filled with H. E. explosive. To arm it you bend this little copper projection over until it breaks off and you hear a hiss. Then throw it for all you’re worth and run! If a war party comes up, and they won’t keep their distance or act hostile, throw it among them, and then you and the others bolt for cover.” He unbelted the bomb’s carrying case, and Dwight replaced the missile in it gingerly. “You won’t have to use it, I’m sure,” said the curator, confidently. “Between the _lakatoi_ and the canoe fight we’ve got a reputation for being best left alone, in this region, I’m thinking.”

He and Nicky set off early next morning. They went straight up the mountain side through the thick and thorny jungle. The geological formation was of comparatively recent lava rock, and the regular slope signified that an old extinct volcano crater formed its top, no doubt long since filled up and overgrown. As they climbed steadily higher, and wider and wider vistas of the country came to view, this impression was confirmed. High up on the slopes a regular talus of broken lava rock from some former eruption barred their way. The bowlders were of all sizes and their crevices and sunny flats held many a snake, so that Nicky, as “snakeologist” of the expedition, felt constrained to cut a snake stick and go after them.

The curator lit his pipe and sat down to spy out the country, meanwhile, with his glasses. Presently Nicky passed him, carrying a long stick of lignum-vitæ with a length of string tied to its top. Just under it he had nailed a staple with the string looped through it. Nicky stalked along, jumping from rock to rock, his eyes intent below him. Presently he made a quick jab with the stick, pulled tight on the string, and then bore aloft a squirming red-and-black serpent, vainly winding itself around the end of the stick, while its head struck futilely at the empty air.

“_Elaterus wallacei_--deadly poisonous,” announced Nicky, scientifically, holding up the creature for the curator to admire. “Isn’t he a beauty?”

“Handsome!” agreed the curator, laughingly. “Not _quite_ so near, Nick--and I hope you’ve got tight hold of that string!”

“Sure! Watch me make a specimen of him!” said the enthusiast, picking up a small club. He held the end of the snake stick down on a rock, where a few judgmatical raps reduced his captive to a scientific curiosity.

Nicky dropped him in a small canvas bag which was pretty sure to have a few lizards and frogs and turtles in it, also, at any given time of day, and they set out upward again. A wide belt of century plants barred their way as they climbed higher. They grew in rank profusion, the great green leaves crossing in every direction, six feet high, and all armed with a dagger point at the tip and saw teeth along the blades. A man’s eyes would be worth nothing if he once got himself well into them.

A detour of about a mile brought them around the century plants, and then came lava escarpments, steep and difficult to climb. Up them they swarmed, and found themselves on a gradually rising, arid table-land with sparse vegetation growing all about, and magnificent views out in every direction.

Working southward, they finally came out on a bald knob that the curator had noted from the camp below and had determined to reach. Here the view was superb, wonderful--when you came to consider that all you looked at below was new and unmapped country. The curator’s pocket aneroid gave their height at a little over six thousand feet. Far over to the east could be made out the dim outlines of Geelvink Bay, with the limitless Pacific behind it. Below them, to the west, the slopes ran down sharply to the mangrove swamps that lined the shores fronting on the Banda Sea, with the long point of Cape Debelle jutting out as if on a small relief map directly below them. Beyond it, far over the sea, a bank of clouds on the horizon told them of Aru, a hundred miles away.

But it was to the south that their eyes turned with the most inquiring interest. Here the ranges rose higher and higher, under heavy banks of clouds, until, on the extreme horizon, the sun glinted on a white, snowy sea of mountains, jagged with peaks and caps, with Carstensz (17,000 feet) just visible as a tiny jutting point of white. Two hundred years ago Jan Carstensz, navigating along these shores, caught a glimpse of the Snow Mountains from the decks of his vessel and reported them in the ship’s log. It was such a rare glimpse, behind the eternal veil of clouds that shrouds the interior of New Guinea, that no one believed him. From that day to this, a lifting of the jungle clouds hanging low over the mountains, and the white man present to see them, have never come at the same time, so that even the existence of the high fellows in the interior has been regarded as a wild tale of Jan Carstensz. It was not for more than two centuries later, in 1911, that Jan Lorentz, another intrepid Hollander, with a party of twenty Dyaks, made a dash through the pygmy country and ascended the first one of the Snow Mountains, naming it Mt. Wilhelmina in honor of the Dutch queen.

From their own knob another wonderful feature of the country could also be seen, extending southward in a long flat perspective--the Great Precipice. For two hundred miles this precipice extends like a rampart, dividing the mountains from the flat jungle. It rises sometimes to a sheer height of ten thousand feet, undoubtedly the grandest precipice in the world. Sloping up to it, they could make out the jungle-clad talus, and beyond that the lowlands of the river country, widening out more and more as the coast land flowed southward. Dozens of rivers, they knew, cut through this jungle, out of sight in the green sea of foliage, and here was the scene of the English expedition, their party arriving full of hope and confidence, only to be baffled by the precipice and the swift floods of the rivers from getting farther than the foothills of the Snow Mountains. Here they had discovered the race of pygmies, and had visited one of their villages, collected implements of war and domestic usage, and, most valuable of all, a list of some fourteen words in their tongue, now carefully preserved for future use in the curator’s notebook.

“Nicky,” said the curator, after a long and careful examination of a spot on the jungly hills to the south of them, “I wish you would take a look at that scar over yonder, where a sort of ravine seems to run down the second mountain to the south of us. My eyes may be deceiving me, but--” He handed over the glasses.

Nicky looked eagerly, with his fresh young eyes glued to the binoculars.

“Huts! Little huts, ’way up in the tree tops! I’m sure of it!” he cried, after a careful scrutiny.

“I knew it!” said the curator, quietly. “Those huts up in the tree tops are where the unmarried girls of the pygmy tribes sleep. That marks it as a pygmy village. See if you can’t make out larger huts on the ground.”

Nicky studied the jungle awhile, with intense concentration. “I see them,” he cried, handing the curator the glasses. “The small huts are built up in bare pandanus trees, and under the palms and bamboos around them I can see a brown shape like a bear’s back--that’s a thatched hut.”

Baldwin agreed with him, after a look for himself. Together they planned a route to reach the village in about two days’ march.

“Say, Mr. Baldwin, that war party of the Outanatas was on its way for a fight with _them_, when they came upon us--that’s my hunch!” declared Nicky, with sudden conviction.

“No doubt! There’s probably more or less of an old trail, if we look for it. And now for some plane-table surveys, Nicky.”

The curator unfolded a large blank sheet among the rear pages of his notebook, and on it drew a rough map of the country, with Nicky to help with comment and suggestion. Then out of his mess kit he took a flat, round brass box, which turned out to be a compass with folding sight bars. With this compass, bearing sights were taken of all the prominent peaks and hills in sight, and the map was then corrected to agree with the bearings.

Then the curator indicated a tall banyan tree growing on the end of a spur of the mountain opposite to them to the south.

“See that tree, Nick?” he asked. “We’ll climb up there to-morrow, and take all these bearings again from that point. Where they intersect these we have taken from here will be the true positions of all these interior peaks and valleys on our maps. That’s the way we make an accurate plane-table survey.”

“How about the distance from here to the banyan tree as a base line?” objected Nicky. “How’ll we lay that out on the map? We don’t know it.”

“We’ll measure it, son. We’ll lay off a base line down in those open swales where the cassowary got his Dwight, so to speak, and we’ll sight this knob and the banyan tree, both, from below. With a known base, and the two triangles erected on it by bearing angles, it’s a cinch to calculate the distance from this knob to the banyan.”

They descended the mountain to camp, finding Dwight up and about and puttering around his camp, an occupation he dearly loved. Baderoon was loafing to his heart’s content, and Sadok had succeeded in adding a rare black cockatoo to the collections. That evening Nicky and the curator went into the open and measured off a base line. From both ends of it their mountain knob and the banyan tree on the next mountain to the south could be sighted. The compass was set up on a stake, and the bearings of both points carefully taken from each end of the base line. It was dark when they got through.

After the camp had fed for the night, the curator came over to Nicky’s fly and squatted there, with his notebook spread out. He first laid off their base line in a small number of the blue-line squares on a page of the notebook. From the ends of this he drew the angles they had taken with the compass. They formed two thin, wedge-shaped triangles, slanting away from the base line in opposite directions. Counting the blue squares between the outer points of these two triangles gave the distance between the knob and the banyan tree compared with the base line, from which it was easy to figure the actual distance. Laying this out on his map, they were ready for the climb next day.