Part 9

“We’ll add about three miles to the base line, from the banyan tree to this cone,” said the curator, imperturbably, drawing it in with his pencil. Then he sighted Red Mountain most carefully through the compass bars. “Distance, about seven miles in an air line, I should judge. What do you think, Nick?”

Baderoon, to their right, gave a grunt and shot his stout bow. The arrow soared down the slope and into a thick aloe clump on the edge of the jungle. A little black man rose out of it and fell over backward.

“Good shot, Baderoon!” commented Nicky, admiringly. There was no better archer, or fighter, either, than their Papuan “black boy!” Nicky squinted across at Red Mountain, shimmering in the distance.

“Seven, or nearly eight miles, I should say,” he pronounced, judgmatically.

An arrow sprung from a rock about seventy yards down the slope as he spoke. It came nosing up to them and fell just in front.

Nicky sighted the spot with his Officer’s Model. “Here’s where I scintillate!” he laughed. “This old six-gun’s at her best at long range. Save your shells, Mr. Baldwin. I’ll get that bird!”

Another arrow soared overhead, coming from the west. Then the curator gave a low exclamation.

“Look, Nick! There goes another signal fire, far to the south. We’ll have all pygmy land around us in another day!”

The revolver barked at that instant, and a puff of dust flew out from the side of the rock behind which a hill man lay concealed.

“Scared him to death, anyhow!” joked Nicky, turning to look at the new fire.

“We’re surrounded, all right, except on the east, and we can’t hold off a whole army of them,” said the curator. “We’ve got two impossible things to do, as I see it--get in to Red Mountain and bring off some specimens and then make our escape from the country.”

“Fat chance!” grunted Nicky, cheerfully, firing his revolver again.

The curator studied the prospect to the east, for there lay their only hope of escape. The terrific geological fault that had made the Great Precipice was nearly buried on that side by the outpourings from their volcano when it had been active, but the lava swept down to the precipice edge in a frightful slope, where it ended abruptly. Blue distance beyond it told of a considerable drop; how much could not be conjectured.

The arrows were coming more thickly, now. It seemed that at least twenty of the little hill men lay concealed in among the bowlders below them, and the occasional pop of Dwight’s automatic told that more of them had come up on his side also. Only to the east was there a free passage, but no man could live on that slope. Nicky and Baderoon were both busy, and once in a while they would get one of the pygmies, exposing himself recklessly in some crawl to a nearer point of vantage. The curator borrowed Nicky’s alcohol cook kit and went down below the rim of the crater to a little rocky ledge inside on the brink of its deep bore. Here he set about making a mulligan for the party, for it was now long past high noon. He shook his half-empty canteen after filling the soup tin.

“Water running low!” he muttered, uneasily. “We’ve got to get out of this to-night! It’s up to me to do a scout down to the precipice brink this afternoon, sometime.”

A perfect fusillade of shots, and a yell for help from Dwight’s side, caused him to jump to his feet hastily and rush for that side of the crater. Putting his head cautiously over the brink, he instantly whipped out his air gun, for a long black line of pygmies was charging up the slope, each man behind his shield, the yellow blades of their bamboo knives sticking up over their shoulders. Sadok’s sumpitan was powerless against them, and Dwight was frantically shoving a fresh clip into the butt of his automatic. Then a shell from the air gun whistled on its way, and its explosion burst in a riving crash over the center of the black line. Dwight opened fire and those on the right flank began to fall back, while Sadok, no longer able to contain himself, dashed down the slope at the survivors of the left flank. He flung himself at them with whirling parang as bamboo knives flashed out, and in another instant he was in the center of a whirlwind of flashing knives. The parang-ihlang sheared through their shields like paper, for Sadok was a star swordsman. Five to one, he was getting the best of them, when the white flash of a keen bamboo knife cut him across the shoulder and he fell, guarding himself with the parang in his left hand.

Dwight’s bullets flew like hail, while the curator dashed down the slope, armed only with Sadok’s abandoned sumpitan spear. In a second he found himself facing the shields of the two pygmy survivors, who circled him with ready knives. They were as light as feathers, but so keen that a single cut would sever off a head, the curator knew; also that he was a mere dub with that spear! Standing over Sadok, he stood them off with the spear point, while the little black men danced and feinted around him, watching their chance. He had counted on Dwight following him, but a quick patter of shots from the crater came to his ears, telling that they were busy at something urgent up there, too. Then Sadok staggered to his feet.

“Shoot, _Orang_!” he gasped, hoarsely. In a flash the curator divined his meaning. The sumpitan held a dart! He raised it suddenly to his lips and blew the missile full into the face of the pygmy opposite him. The other dashed in, to be met by the flash of Sadok’s parang, which sheared the bamboo knife aimed at the curator like a straw. Defenseless, he turned and ran for the jungle, while the other pygmy fell in a limp heap before him.

With Sadok leaning heavily on him, weak from loss of blood, the curator crawled slowly up the slope. Another arrow came singing out of the jungle and sailed close over their heads. With a curse of rage, he turned and shelled the spot with his air gun. A crackle of fire followed the detonation. The dry thicket seemed to leap into red flame, set afire by the shell, and clouds of white smoke swept up the slope after them. Meanwhile a heavy sputtering of pistol shots came from over the crater brim. Acting on a sudden impulse, the curator bore off to the east and dropped Sadok behind some bowlders near the rim of the precipice. Then he crawled down carefully from rock to rock, looking up anxiously over his shoulder at the summit, for they were evidently hard pressed up there. The yawning abyss fell away below him as he came to the edge and looked over. Below was the green jungle of no-man’s land, the vegetation creeping up the lava talus part way, where it was finally stopped by lack of moisture and soil. From the brink to the nearest point below was at least a hundred feet of sheer fall, and from there on down the slope was the limit angle of repose. Without a long rope there was no escape that way.

“Well,” said the curator to himself, after an examination, “of the two impossibilities, we’ll have to give up Red Mountain and try this! Eight miles through pygmy land, with them buzzing like hornets about us--good Lord!” he groaned. “Our report will have to go as it stands.”

A yell came from Dwight, up in the crater.

“Where are you, Mr. Baldwin?” it called. “We stood ’em off! Close call! Hurry up! they’re getting ready for another rush.”

“Bring everything and come on down here!” he yelled back. “Now’s your chance.”

Presently Dwight, Nicky, and Baderoon came creeping over the brink on the north side. They slid down the slope on their backs and flung themselves among the first large bowlders. The jungle to the north was now a crackling mass of fire, driven on by the west monsoon, while a fog of smoke covered that side. Behind it lay the pygmies, unable to pass, and they were safe for the present from that quarter. But how soon a rush would be made from the west and south they could not tell. The curator crept back and brought Sadok from where he lay hidden in the bowlders. Bandaging the gash on his right shoulder as swiftly as he could, he got their party together on the precipice brink and each man contributed whatever he had that would go toward making a rope. The boys’ two tent ropes, the curator’s hammock rope, and Sadok’s turban cloth were knotted together hastily. Then came the curator’s hammock and the two tent flies. Tying the upper end to a gnarly ironwood bush that grew near the brink, they let it all down over the cliff, where the lower end dangled far below, still some twenty feet above the slope.

“Won’t do!” said the curator, grimly, hauling it up again. “A man’s got to land there on his feet or he’ll never escape pitching on down that steep slope. Quick, now, all your belts, boys!” They were added on and the rope lowered again. Shouts and yells came from the summit. At least forty of the little men were up there, singing and dancing with victory around the crater.

“Well, I’m off!” said Nicky, who was the most fearless climber of them all. He shook hands abruptly and swung over the brink.

X

CINNABAR MOUNTAIN

A chorus of shouts arose from the pygmies as they discovered the little knot of whites clustered on the precipice brink. Brandishing their weapons, they climbed on down, shooting as they ran. The curator stopped them with a shell that shook the mountain side like an earthquake and sent a shower of stones rolling down upon their own position. A yell came up from below. Nicky had arrived on the slope and was stamping a shelf in the lava stones, sending showers of them rolling on down below him. Dwight grabbed the rope and went down after him, leaving his automatic with the curator. The hill men were now sneaking down toward them, exposing themselves only occasionally to the sumpitan and pistol.

“Good-by, _Orang-kaya_!” said Baderoon, fumbling next at the rope. “Me prenty ’fraid--but me go!” He swung himself over and dropped down swiftly.

“You next, Sadok. Can you manage it?” said the curator, anxiously. The Dyak smiled grimly; wounds, weakness, physical disability, were nothing when the spirit commanded. His fearless face showed that his mind could overrule the frailties of his body.

“Me do!” he grunted, and down over the cliff he went, his wounded right arm forced to do its part. The curator turned and faced the pygmies.

“Fine little men!” he grinned. “Some day you will be swept away like chaff--but here’s one explorer who can appreciate you! Good-by!”

He swung over and dropped down the rope, hand over hand. The men of that old, old race, centuries before the first Papuan came to these shores, were still in his mind as he descended. He regretted that he could not have lived with them peacefully and studied their natures more thoroughly. The ancient civilization of the hunting tribes was theirs, and with it a mental quality that had kept them inviolate among their hills in spite of a ring of hostile Papuan savages below them, far superior in stature and numbers to all their tribes put together. Like most of the real aborigines of the world, they would well repay study.

When he arrived at the foot of the rope the rest of the party had tramped quite a trail along the foot of the cliff. Stones that now showered over from above told them that it was essential to get to the jungle as quickly as possible, and the shortest way was obviously along the cliff base and over the turn of the volcanic cone poured down here by former eruptions.

But Nicky looked back at the rope, longingly. He hated to leave all that good equipment behind. The rope part they could dispense with, but without the curator’s hammock and their own tent flies the jungle would be a misery during the afternoon thunderstorms.

“Hike along, boys. I’m going to make a try at that rope before they find it and haul it up!”

Unmindful of the curator’s expostulations, amid the rain of falling stones, he crouched close to the cliff face and drew out his revolver. Most of the stones were dropping far out; it would be a mere chance if he were hit. Three times he fired at the knot above the curator’s hammock, a mark perhaps forty feet off. Then an arrow struck the rock at his feet with a sharp tang, and, looking up, he saw one of the pygmies leaning far out over the cliff, aiming at him again. The rope had shaken a little at one of the shots and on this faint hope he sprang for the tent fly and tugged fiercely at it. He thought he felt a strand or two of it break and so jumped up on the tent fly, coming down with all his weight. Another arrow spun past him. He realized that it was only the peculiarity of having a vertical target that saved him, for the archer above was overshooting him because of it. With a last violent tug the rope strand parted, and Nicky sprawled headlong down the lava slope. Like a cat he spread-eagled, flattening himself out on the rubble of small stones, and finally he fetched up a considerable distance down the slope.

He was now a mark for a dozen arrows from above and they buzzed at him like hornets. Rising, he leaped on down, stabbing with his feet and sending an avalanche of rocks on before him. His strides kept getting longer and longer. A breathless feeling of getting out of control, falling down the slope faster and faster, made him think quick. He must stop himself at any hazard, risk a fall, if need be! He resolved on the latter, and, throwing himself sidewise, came down with a bump that jarred every bone in his body. He saw stars for an instant, but held his consciousness. Looking back, he could see that he was far out of range now. Rubbing himself painfully, he got up and started to step gingerly from rock to rock across the slope.

But the hill men weren’t done with him yet. A great stone fell over the cliff and came bounding down straight toward him. Nicky dodged it, as derisive yells came from up above. Two more rocks came whizzing down the slope, bounding like cannon balls. They seemed very terrific, but the boy stood his ground and watched them pass, shooting in a great arc high overhead and landing with a shock against the trees down in the jungle below. He realized that he was not so easy to hit; that all it required was watchfulness and care to win out.

The slope was so steep that he could toss a pebble clear down to the jungle below him, it seemed. Rocks, cactus, and century plants covered the hill, the former so unstable that they had to be tested before putting weight on them. As quickly as he could the boy picked his way along the slope, dodging rocks of all sizes flung down from above. Shouts of encouragement came from his own party under the cliff, who now were moving along fast, calling for him to hurry. Then a yell of warning echoed down from the curator, and Nicky looked up, bewildered. The hill men had brought a pole from the jungle and were prying off a whole ledge of stones hanging loosely poised above the cliff edge.

He leaped along like a mountain goat, stumbling and sliding, starting rocks by the dozen. The pygmies had chosen a place where the avalanche would fall right across his path, and he could hear the distant grumble of it as he jumped. Desperately his eyes looked below for a refuge, and then he dove for a huge bowlder and fell flat behind it as the roar, it seemed, of the whole slope coming down upon him sounded in his ears. Determined to die game, he rose behind his rock as the noise swept down toward him, for he was more afraid that his own rock would start and crush him than anything else, and had determined to leap out at the first sign of its going.

Then came the roar of hurtling stones passing over him in a flying cloud of dust. The thunder of it was appalling. His own rock moved with the jar, slightly, and then settled back on its foundations again as Nicky recalled the impulse to jump clear. Then came a wave of fine pebbles and dust, curling around the ends of his rock and forming a sort of pit around him. Showers of small stones cascaded over the top and fell down on him like a rain. It gave him an idea. As the landslide subsided he crouched, hidden behind the rock. Anxious calls came from under the cliff, but Nicky lay hid. Why not pretend that the avalanche had buried him? He only hoped that the curator or Dwight would not attempt to come out and rescue him.

The silence up on the cliff was broken by exulting yells, and he could hear them stringing along now above the precipice, searching for the whereabouts of the curator’s party below. If they would only keep on without him!

Another “_Coo-eee!_” came from under the cliff. “_Nicky! Are you alive, old scout?_” came the yell of Dwight’s voice.

He dared not call back. The hill men were too keen, and not easily fooled. He lay quiet, listening. Presently the crackle of falling stones and more yells and cries along the cliff told that their party had been located. They were probably retreating along under the cliff as fast as possible. Nicky turned and crept down the slope on his stomach, looking back to see that the rock still hid him from sight of the cliff top above. Then he worked over behind a small bush and peered up through it. Whether there were hill men watching the slope, concealed among the rocks above, he could not tell, but there probably were. The whole north side of the volcano was smoking with the jungle fire and it crept down until the thickets on the verge of the precipice were red with burning trees. He noted with relief that it barred the passage of their pursuers that way, or at least it necessitated a detour, and he hoped that their party had gotten away.

Whether to risk exposing himself now was the question. He was alone in the heart of wildest New Guinea, and it was necessary to rejoin their party and make a speed back toward the boat, for undoubtedly the hill men knew of a defile down the precipice somewhere which would let them out into no-man’s land. Also thunderheads were sweeping up from the south, and it would not be an hour before the afternoon storm would be due.

Well, one thing was certain, he ought to let his people know that he was still alive before they got out of hearing. Nicky drew his revolver and fired two shots quick with it. A whoop came from up on the mountain. They were watching the slope still! Then two shots from Dwight’s automatic barked, muffled, from over the shoulder of the cone. It sounded as if from the jungle. They would either wait for him there or circle, the boy reasoned. Probably the latter, and he could rejoin them down below at the foot of the slope. And now was the time to run, for he could hear the hill men above calling for their companions and presently the whole tribe would be back.

Nicky rose and jumped down the slope. He got a glimpse over his shoulder of two tiny black fellows dancing and hurling rocks impotently, and then gave all his attention to getting down, for the slide was steeper than a log chute. Swiftly the jungle seemed to rise up to meet him, and with a final bound he reached the friendly shelter of the trees and darted out of sight.

Then, for the first time, his aching, bruised leg forced itself into consciousness and he began to limp. Directing shots between him and Dwight gave them his location, and then calls and shouts brought them together.

Dwight came running through the jungle, grinning with joy.

“Gee! old man, we’d given you up for lost!” he yelled, capering about and punching Nicky with delight. “Got all the plunder with you, too, haven’t you!”

“Sure!” gurgled Nicky, happily. “That’s what this war’s all about! Where’s Mr. Baldwin?”

“Back there a bit, waiting for us,” said Dwight. “We got to make time. Forced march all night.”

“Going to be a wet one, too!” retorted Nicky, limping along as a mutter of thunder came rolling up from the south. “We’d better keep the tent flies out.”

They rejoined the curator, who noticed the game leg as soon as Nicky came up. “Tough luck, kid!” he said, after congratulations had been exchanged. “I’ll have to ask you to grin and bear it as best you can, for we’ve got our work cut out for us to-night!” He drew his compass, took a bearing--and started _south_, through the jungle!

A general grunt of amazement ran through the party. “Why, Mr. Baldwin, I thought we were to hurry north, so as to get back to the canoe ahead of them!” cried Dwight, voicing the feeling of them all.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” replied the curator, heading on steadily through the thickets just below the base of the volcanic talus. “It’s a bit of psychology that I’ve been working out. In the first place the pygmies, I’m sure, think as you all thought. They judged by our actions that we were beaten and would think of nothing but hurrying back to the sea again. They will make forced marches, to-night, to head us off, I’ll bet! And then we must reckon on the human nature of our own folks, too. ‘Seeing is believing’ is one of the truest old sayings there are. In other words, we’ve simply _got_ to bring back some real specimens of that cinnabar and be able to swear where we got it. No financier that I know will back a company to open up mines on the mere say-so of a red mountain seen eight miles off. I know red mercury ore strata as far as I can see it--but I _might_ be mistaken. Suppose it should turn out to be just red clay, or red iron ore!”

“Gosh, sir! you’re right!” put in Nicky. “I sort of felt that way myself, but I suppose I did not feel it hard enough to really do a stunt like this!”

“Sure!” smiled the curator. “It’s the difference between a youth and a man, Nick. The youth gets the vague feeling, but he’s as like as not to do nothing about it; the man reasons until he is convinced by the force of logic--then he acts. Now I was studying the wall of the Great Precipice when we were on the brink doing the rope fire-escape trick, with just this idea in mind. There are gaps in this precipice all along it, where the rivers tumble down from the hill country to the low jungle on their way to the sea. I marked one, some distance beyond that first signal fire to the south. It can’t be more than five miles from there in to Cinnabar Mountain, and the gap’s about five miles from here. Can we do ten miles to-night? That’s the question.”

“How about getting past that village?” asked Dwight.

“That’s the nice thing about my scheme,” laughed the curator. “I figure that all their fighting men have gone north, long ago, to aid the men of our village in repelling invaders. Those signal fires are evidently used to call the clans when war parties of the Outanatas attack them. The women and children, and perhaps a few old men, will be all that we are likely to encounter, and we ought to slip by them successfully in the night.”

“Won’t they come down our rope and track us, sir?” said Nicky. “I’ve been worrying about that, although no one tried it while I was on that slope.”

“You answered that with your revolver, Nick!” chuckled the curator. “No man can drop forty feet to that talus and live. Of course they may bring up more ropes, in time, but my idea is that all that’s left of them, with perhaps a party of fighting men from this village ahead, are now hot-footing it for some pass that they know of to the north. We’ll be on Red Mountain and giving them the laugh while they are looking for us up near the lagoon--and let’s hope they fall in with a war party of the Outanatas while they are about it! Here comes the rain, men,” he broke off. “We’ll make camp and cook something and get a bit of sleep until the moon comes up.”