Part 8

It did not seem possible to Nicky that they could climb up a new mountain, clear up to that banyan tree, without a series of hair-raising adventures, but, strange to say, it was done! The boy began to study out this phenomenon, finally, so unusual did it seem, and he found the secret of it lay in the curator’s method. He was after a plane-table survey, now, and so he let all the wild creatures alone--and they let him alone! Cassowaries and brush turkeys ran off, squawking cackles through the swales of saw grass, but the curator heeded them not. Wallabys leapt for cover, and were let go free. They passed a high pandanus with a tree kangaroo crawling in its top, but no Nicky was detailed to go up after him. Snakes of high and low degree, fascinating in the extreme to Nicky, went squirming on their ways unchased. Even a cuscus of a new kind was passed by unmolested. Nicky perceived that trouble would not hunt you, if you did not seek it, in the New Guinea jungle. In a surprisingly short time they were at the foot of the banyan tree and truing up all the points on the map with intersecting lines drawn from their position.

“Besides which, we have added a lot of stuff to the north which I can correct with coast surveys,” concluded the curator as he folded the pocket notebook. “I reckon this map will admit me to the Royal Geographic and entitle me to a whole alphabet tacked on after my name--much that I care!” he laughed. “The thing for us to do now is to push on and visit the pygmies, and then for Cinnabar Mountain! Sorry this survey did not show it up. Must be farther on to the south.”

Next day camp was broken and the whole party was on the move. Baderoon was entirely well, now, and Dwight so far healed that he and Sadok had overturned nearly every rock near camp the day before, adding hundreds of new beetles to his collection. They followed at first the old war trail of the Outanatas, and then, as it deviated away, took the route planned out by Nicky and the curator through the mountains from the knob. That night the tents were pitched on the edge of a warm, dry field of yellow grass, with coco palms and wild, small-fruited bananas crowding out into the clearing. A little stream, flowing into their old friend the creek, gave their roots the necessary water, and made a rill to camp besides. It all reminded Nicky and Dwight of some of their earlier Florida camps with the curator, and they felt entirely at home.

At dawn each man cooked him a breakfast, rolled up his pack, and by sunup they were on the trail again. From across the valley, a look-see by Nicky up on the hillside disclosed the pygmy village, now not half a day’s march away, and they went along cautiously, guns and pistols ready and the curator’s air gun loaded with a short-range shell, for they might come on a party of them unexpectedly and no one could foresee the outcome. About a mile from the village they halted, and chose an easily defended position on the mountain side. There they waited for some of the pygmies to come that way. There was a well-defined trail just below them, and they judged that it was often used. In perhaps an hour voices came along it through the jungle. A small party, of four warriors and a dog, were walking single file along the path, and at sight of the curator they all stopped with guttural exclamations of alarm.

It seemed to Dwight that he had never looked upon such villainous-looking little men. They were about four feet six inches high, the tallest not four feet nine; brownish black in color; and, instead of the Papuan mop of frizzled hair, their heads were nearly bald, with black chin and side whiskers, in a sort of thick mane from ear to ear. They carried bows at least a foot longer than they were tall, spears, and a net bag slung over the shoulder. Each man had also a small sack containing his fire sticks and other belongings slung about his neck. In place of the usual loin cloth, or just plain nudity, each wore a long, yellow half gourd, hung from a string around his middle and secured by a thong through the crotch.

Dwight thrilled to realize that he was looking upon the original aborigines of New Guinea. Like the Negritos of the Philippines, and our own cave men forbears, they were short, strong little men, with well-developed muscles and stout legs, and they were in a high state of hunting-tribe civilization, as shown by the decency of the gourd, the absence of barbaric ornament, and the efficient hunter’s equipment that each man carried. They did not seem particularly afraid, but stood staring at the white party, arrows on bow, ready for any eventuality.

The curator grinned and, pointing at the mangy-looking dog, “_Wiwi!_” he pronounced.

The four started with astonishment, to hear a word in their own tongue spoken by this strange-looking white man.

Then, pointing at the most clownish-looking one of the four, “_Amare-ta?_” (“His?”) he asked, smiling genially.

The man was evidently the butt and good fellow of the crowd, for the shot about it being _his_ dog went home. A black-whiskered old pirate, who was evidently their leader, cracked a smile and nodded his head. Then they began to chatter among themselves, excitedly. Evidently they had heard of the English expedition from their own tribes to the south. The English had treated them well, experienced as they are in handling natives.

“_Kami oro-ta?_” (“Your houses?”) asked the curator, next. “Gosh! boys, I only know fourteen words of their language, but I’m working them for all they are worth!” he exclaimed in an aside to their own party.

The pygmies grinned and nodded again, dropping their arrow points in a more friendly manner. He was winning them fast.

“_Kema-u-uteri!_” said the old fellow, vigorously, pointing toward the village.

“He means they’re going to give us a pig and some coconuts,” explained the curator to his own party. “They want us to come up to the village. I guess not! We’ll stay right here and see what next.”

He nodded his thanks for their offer; then, “_Area-ta ku!_” (“My boat!”) he said to the pygmies, waving his hand toward the lagoon down in the valleys. “_Uta doro-ta!_” he added, pointing to their camp site, the words telling them that his fire would be made there.

The four nodded and grinned as the curator signified politely that they were welcome to visit him. Then they started up the trail, with many a backward glance of curiosity.

“Now, then, boys, it’s up to us to barricade this camp and make it as strong for defense as we can, until we see how everything turns out,” said the curator, energetically, after they had gone.

The site was admirably chosen. A huge prone bole lay across the front of it, overlooking the trail, and it only needed stones cleared away and piled on the flanks to make a veritable fort of it, with their rear protected by the rocky ledges of the mountain. They cleared out the inclosure and then started their fire. Presently yells and shouts and an excited babel of voices came floating across the valley from the village. Through the glasses they could see men, women, and children crowding around the four hunters, and then there was an immense amount of running around and preparations of some sort going on in the village.

“The four were not on the war path, for they carried no bamboo knives for head hunting,” ruminated the curator. “Tapiros, I suppose. Get a lot of wood for a big fire,” he ordered. “We want plenty of light if they come around to-night, so we can see what we are doing.”

The noise in the village redoubled, and, as night came down and the tents and hammocks were slung, it seemed that every man, woman, and child in it was coming to visit them in a mob. A singing chorus of the wild little hill men came marching toward them through the jungle paths.

“That’s bad!” exclaimed the curator, anxiously. “If there was only some way we could show our power, without hurting them! We can’t let a mob get to close quarters with us.”

“I think I’ve got a scheme, sir,” ventured Nicky. “There are a few flashlights in my vest-pocket camera. Suppose I run out and explode one in the path, about thirty yards off?”

“Well--get it ready, anyhow,” hesitated the curator. “They don’t seem to be hostile. Dwight and Sadok will cover you, while I will step out in front of the log and try to act like a peaceable human being.”

The pygmies came on in a crowd through the dark, torches here and there shining through the bush. They did not seem to be sending out flanking parties, which was reassuring, and the main body came on down the trail. Nicky dashed out, lit the fuse of his flash, and had just gotten back to the tree when it went off. A blinding glare lit up the scene. It showed at least a hundred pygmies diving frantically for cover. The whites noted with relief that the men were decorated with flowers and carried no arms. A party bearing a pig trussed up on a pole had suddenly set down their burden and decamped.

“They’re friendly!” cried the curator, relievedly. “I’d give a million dollars for the word ‘friend’ in Tapiro!” Instead, he put his hand over his heart and bowed his thanks for the pig, like any after-dinner orator. Sadok threw a pile of grass on the fire and its flames lit up the scene. The moment hung in the balance.

“Sing, boys!--something plaintive!--for God’s sake, sing!” barked the curator, hastily.

On such sudden notice Nicky could think of nothing but the old campfire ditty, “Sweet Adeline.” He poured it out, at the top of his voice, the others chiming in on the refrain. All over the world, in lonely campfires from the Arctic to the Equator, that plaintive song has unburdened the hearts of hunters and explorers, as a wolf bays the moon. It did not fail them now. Where words lacked, music got across. That remote something in the plaintive chimes of “Adeline” that satisfies the white hunter had reached over into the souls of this tribe of the most ancient of all hunters. One or two old men came out, quaking, from their hiding places, the leader of the original four one of them.

“_Yow-nata-u; kema-kema!_” he quavered, indicating the pig.

“Thanks!” called out the curator, desperately. “Go get him, Sadok and Baderoon. We’ve got to do the polite. I never knew music to fail with savages yet!”

They went down and carried the pig up ceremoniously, while the curator kept on bowing his thanks. “Set it down in front of our tree. I’ve got another idea,” he said, as they brought the pig up. “Put another of your flashes in front of the pig, Nicky, and touch it off.”

Nicky lit the fuse, and the curator stood over the pig, making what he hoped were sufficiently impressive incantations over it. Presently the flash went off, lighting up the whole jungle with its lurid glare. In the intense darkness that followed, the pig was whisked over the log out of sight. By the time sight returned to the eyes of the little hill men it had disappeared.

“That ought to hold ’em for a bit!” said the curator, out of the corner of his mouth. “They call me _Yow-nata_, ‘sun maker,’ so a miracle or two won’t do any harm. Got any more ideas, boys?”

“Yes, I’ve got a good one!” came back Dwight. “Let’s have your flasher, sir, and yours, Nicky. They’re both powerful. Now, then, have you got anything to give them, sir?”

“Sure! I’ve been saving a small bag of beads for some such affair as this,” said the curator, producing them from a pocket.

“All right. You walk out there with them, and I’ll do my stunt,” chuckled Dwight.

“Thank the Lord, ‘bead’ is one of the words the English got,” said the curator, starting down to the trail.

“_Upou_ [beads] _kema!_ [give]” he called out, holding out a handful of them and waving it about. The old men crept forward warily. As they came close to the curator, Dwight, with the flashers held on both sides of his eyes, flashed them on. The effect was weird in the extreme. It looked as if he had two fiery eyes, and the rays lit up the curator and made the glass beads in his palm flash like jewels. There was an instant dive by the hill men into the brush again.

“_Amare upou kema! Amare upou kema!_ [I give you beads! I give you beads!] Come out, you little devils!” he called, reassuringly, while Dwight kept the rays turned on him steadily.

It took a lot of coaxing, but finally the same old fellow ventured forth again, trying the effect of the light on himself gingerly. He jumped back as Dwight turned his face and swept the jungle, heads popping out of sight like chipmunks as his “eyes” lit up the jungle. Then the old man ventured out again as the rays returned to the curator. Foot by foot he drew near, with many a questioning glance, and finally the curator was able to drop a pile of beads in his hand. He grunted with pleasure, and Baldwin signed for the other to approach. He gave a small pile to each, and then walked back to the log.

“Switch ’em off, Dwight. You did fine!” he exclaimed. “Now we’ll go about our affairs and let ’em watch us for the present. You keep guard, and if any of them venture too near, just turn those eyes on them and we’ve got ’em on the run.”

The tents were put up and candles and lanterns lit, the pygmies watching every move from the jungle depths. The curator spent his time trying to talk to the old men, who had gathered in the trail below their log breastwork, and he finally attempted a few words in the hated Papuan tongue. To his surprise they knew considerable of that, too, and Baderoon was at once called to interpret. Between them a feast was arranged next day in the village, and the information conveyed that the white man would prefer that the tribe go back to their village, now, as it was time for sleep.

At this the older men gave an order (there did not seem to be any central head chief) and they all drifted slowly back, their voices coming faintly out of the jungle, all talking excitedly.

“And now, boys, we’ll call it a day!” said the curator. “Looks as if they were going to be friendly. Sadok, you stand watch until those stars there”--indicating the Southern Cross--“come over that mountain. Then call me.”

The camp turned in, leaving Sadok on guard by the fire.

IX

THE FIGHT AT THE CRATER

“Fill your canteens, boys!” ordered the curator, as they finished breakfast next morning, “and stow all this pig meat we can carry, for our aim will be to get through with this feast of the pygmies as soon as we can and then push on south. Every man pack his kit for marching order.”

Sadok had butchered the pig during his night watch, and he and Baderoon each had a ham ready for slinging. The camp reveled in fresh pork chops, and then cut slices of the forequarters for carrying in their pemmican sacks.

Then they set out for the pygmy village, weapons still ready in case of any treachery. All of the men of the tribe were gathered around a great fire, and a huge feast of roast brush turkey, sago-palm bread, and yams was set out, all ready to eat, but not a woman or a child was in sight.

“That’s all right,” reassured the curator, as the others looked around questioningly. “The English offered the pygmies any amount of bribes for a single photograph of a woman, but they had all been moved up on the mountain and no amount of persuasion could get them to call one down. It means nothing hostile to us.”

They seated themselves in the circle. The pygmy men carried no arms, but they could see weapons stacked against the trees near by, among them the thin, flat blades of the sinister bamboo knives used in head hunting. The feast went on merrily, the curator working out a system of learning pygmy words by pointing at objects and making the question sign. Speaking mixed Papuan and pygmy, a considerable conversation was being carried on. He managed to convey the idea that birds and insects were exchangeable for more of the beads, and then, finally, after a good deal of groping--

“Him want you-fellah stop prenty much time here,” explained Baderoon out of the tangle of words and signs.

The curator shook his head and pointed southward, smiling. Instantly an angry look shot across the faces of the older men. They shook their heads vigorously, and some halting Papuan dialect followed.

“Him say taboo. Prenty debbil-debbil mountain thataway,” translated Baderoon. “No good. Prenty hantus. Must go back!” He pointed north.

The curator smiled. “Yes, we will--not! We might go back and circle around them, fellows--but, no, they’ll have scouts spying on us until we get out of the country, and it’ll be a jungle fight all the way to try to get past them to the south. No; we’ll have it out with them now!”

“Tell them,” he said, sternly, “that the _Yow-nata_ is not afraid of any devil-devil, nor taboo, nor hantus.”

An angry buzz greeted Baderoon’s translation. The little black-bearded men shook their heads violently, and some of them began to look around for their weapons. There were at least forty in the party.

“Looks like a close-up!” muttered the curator, fumbling for his explosive bomb. “We’ll retreat in good order to the south, boys, if it comes to a fight. Perhaps if I show ’em this bomb it’ll take their minds off it for the present. Good to have it handy, anyhow.”

All eyes were fixed on the shining bauble as he drew it forth. The effect, however, was somewhat different than he had intended. A fierce cupidity shone in the eyes of the old fellow of the trail--here was a bead that transcended all other beads in glory!

“_Kema! Kema!_” (“Give! Give!”) he grunted, avidly, holding out his hand for it.

The curator shook his head. “_Yow-yowri!_” (“Bewitched!”) he said, pointing to the sun. It flashed like a little sun in his hand, but, far from being made afraid by its mysterious reflections, the desire for its possession gleamed fairly murderous out of the pygmies’ eyes. A dozen hands reached out for it. Suddenly a black hand like a monkey’s paw shot under the curator’s arm and the bauble was snatched from his hand. The whites jumped to their feet, gathering in a close knot.

“This won’t do! Back off, boys, and get a little distance from them!” barked the curator. They drew off, Sadok’s shield and sumpitan spear covering their immediate retreat. But the pygmies were paying no attention to them. They fought like wild men for the bomb, snatching it from hand to hand, clawing and biting at one another with primal savagery. In the midst of the snatching and grabbing a sharp hiss came to their ears. They had broken off its primer in the struggle!

“Run, fellows, run!” yelled the curator. They did not stop to look back. They heard the thing go off among the pygmies with a thunder that shook the ground under them, as up the hill they tore, past the tree houses and up the stony slopes of the mountain. Below them they could see a great sandy crater in the center of the village, the huts all slanting askew, while warriors were running to the coconut trees, arming themselves hurriedly. A short distance up the hill the curator turned and fired the air pistol with a long-range shell. The deafening crash of its explosion rang through the jungle over the village, and they saw little black men thrown violently about, like black tumble-bugs, with its concussion. They waited no longer, but toiled up the hill as fast as they could climb. Shouts below and calls in the jungle came to their ears. There was plenty of fight left in the little hill men, and they knew that the mountain was being surrounded and that a jungle fight of the most difficult character lay ahead of them.

For a time they climbed steadily. The vegetation was thin and one could see for some distance, so that the native archers could not get up close as in the deep jungle. With Sadok and Baderoon as outliers, they headed for the top. The mountain was another extinct volcanic cone, and the same outcroppings of lava rock, the same belts of century plants and aloes, were met as on the mountain back of Cassowary Camp.

Next came bare patches of huge volcanic rocks. They could look out, here, over the sea of jungle-covered mountains, and from the curve of the sides of their own they judged that it was a perfect cone, a volcano of somewhat recent activity. Sadok came running in, and in his hand was a long cane arrow. The point was blood-red, and at first they thought he had been hit, but his actions did not indicate it.

“Littly black man close!” he breathed, heavily. “Shoot’m arrow.”

The curator took the missile and examined its head carefully. It was made of a blood-red, six-sided crystal, thinned to a point and lustrous and polished.

“Cinnabar, boys!” he exclaimed. “This tribe know all about Red Mountain. That’s why they wouldn’t let us go south, and it’s why the southern tribe at Wamberibi would not let the English go north, too! I bet we see it when we reach this cone top!”

They pressed on swiftly, the vegetation now scattered and consisting only of the most arid and gnarly species, all plentifully provided with thorns.

“Look, _Orang-kaya_!” called Baderoon, hastily, pointing back down the mountain.

Five small hill men were climbing after them on the slopes.

“Never mind them. Put out for the top, boys,” shouted the curator, running after them. “We’ve got to get there and dig in before any flanking parties cut us off.”

They raced up over the lava-strewn slopes. The top of the mountain was a bare cone, with a deep, narrow crater, perhaps fifty feet in bore, extending down into it. A faint odor of sulphur came up from its dark depths. Around the lip was fine lava dust and small rocks. For at least fifty yards down the slopes there was no cover of any sort.

“You and Sadok stand off those beggars, Dwight. Dig in on the rim of the crater and pick ’em off. Here’s where we make our stand for the present,” ordered the curator, as he and the rest of the party ran around the crater to the south. They pawed shallow pits in the detritus and lay down, watching the slopes below. No pygmies had come in sight yet, but there was much that was interesting to study. Out of the jungle clearing on the opposite mountain, beyond them to the south, rose the smoke of a huge signal fire, and their glasses could make out huts in the trees near it. To the east, the long wall of the Great Precipice stretched southward, halving one side of the mountain ranges, with the green of the lowland jungle swarming up to its base. Near its brink was a small clearing and yet another pygmy village. It was their country, all right!

But to the southeast rose a sight that held them all breathless. The geological formation in the interior was dark and stratified, of basic instead of volcanic rock, and the ragged edges of thin coal seams could be picked out running through the jungle along bare escarpments. Before them rose sheer a truncated cone of a mountain, separated from the interior formations by a deep gap. Its whole upper half was bare of jungle, and across it, in a horizontal belt, ran a vein of deep pink, at least four hundred feet from top to bottom!

“Red Mountain!” gasped the curator, as he and Nicky stared speechless at the fabulous wealth spread out before their eyes. “Pure cinnabar--and Lord knows how many million tons of it! It makes that Mexican deposit look like a thirty-cent Mex. dollar when you want to buy a tin of white man’s tobacco with it! Well, while we’ve got time, the most important thing in the world to do now is to locate that mountain on the map.”

The crack of Dwight’s automatic came to their ears as the curator got out his notebook and the mess kit with his surveyor’s compass packed in one of its pans. Dwight and Sadok were already at work, they could hear, and as they opened out the map page a long cane arrow came singing over their shoulders and soared on down the slope.

“Gee! They must be getting close up on that side! Make it snappy, sir!” said Nicky, drawing his revolver and laying it on a rock beside him.