CHAPTER XI

A VIGIL

The black vault of heaven with its twinkling stars could be seen in narrow strips through the entangled tops of closely growing trees. Hal looked up at it longingly from time to time and wondered if a searching party did come flying overhead, whether or not they would be able to penetrate the dense screen and see them.

Their campfire, though piled so high, seemed pitifully inadequate for such a purpose, and he experienced a sinking sensation in his stomach when he thought how much less it could be seen in the daylight. Too, Carmichael might not be any better off than they. Parachutes very often failed one. Perhaps it would have been better if they had all stuck and taken their chances together. Rodriguez was in such a bad way.... Hal had long ago given up trying to stop the bleeding. But he felt so hopeless about it, so helpless. There seemed nothing for him to do but sit and wait.

He leaned over to the woodpile from time to time, replenishing the blaze. Sometimes Rodriguez would sigh, then sink into a deeper sleep than before. Hal was always hoping that the sleep was doing him good, but it occurred to him after a time that the pilot’s strength was slowly ebbing and that it wasn’t slumber, but a torpor which held him in its grip.

His heart went out to the young man and he completely forgave him his cowardice. Certainly Rodriguez was getting the worst of it. Perhaps it was true that he had feared the consequences of his sins more than his actual departure from life. Hal shrugged his shoulders at the thought—the Latin temperament was indeed strange.

For a little while after that, Hal began to think of food and water. He had had neither since luncheon and, for a healthy young man with his appetite, that was a fearful length of time to go without nourishment. But that too seemed an after consideration in the face of the present pall that hung over that strange little jungle camp.

Hal reached out and taking Rodriguez’ hand felt of his pulse. He knew little about such things, yet enough to realize that the pilot’s pulse beats were anything but normal. At times he could barely distinguish any pulsation at all. Moreover, the fellow’s hand felt cold and clammy in his own.

When he went to relinquish his hold, Rodriguez showed some resistance. He held feebly to Hal’s warm, strong hand and smiled.

“I feel not so cold, Señor,” he explained hesitantly. “It’s....” he seemed too weak to say more.

“You mean it makes you feel better and warmer for me to hold on to your hands?” Hal asked him solicitously.

Rodriguez nodded.

“All right, fellow. Here, give me the other one—I’ll rub them, huh? We’ll have a little holding hands party.” Hal chuckled, trying not to see the questioning, poignant look in the pilot’s eyes.

He went to sleep again this way, but Hal kept hold of both his hands, pressing them with his own at intervals. It gave him a peculiar sensation, this maternal gesture on his part, and if he had not felt so utterly sad about Rodriguez’ condition he would have been abashed at his display of tenderness.

The long hours crept by—a glimpse of full moon showed in a single silver moonbeam through the trees. From the depths beyond the clearing came the mournful sound of living things unseen. The weird plaint of the sloth came drifting down the breeze, tree frogs and crickets clacked and hummed with a monotony that was utterly depressing, and once the air shook with a thunderous concussion from some falling tree.

Hal started but it did not seem to bother the airman. He merely moved in his torpor and muttered unintelligibly. After five minutes of this he spoke aloud, feebly yet clearly.

“It was for the _Cause_, Señor ... the _Cause_. Señor Goncalves he too did it for the _Cause_. But ah, how it troubles me, Señor....”

“What troubles you, Rodriguez?” Hal asked, pressing gently down on his hand. “What are you talking about, fellow?”

The airman seemed not to hear, however, but went on muttering, sometimes aloud, sometimes not. Hal came to the conclusion that he was in a sort of delirium and realized that he ought to have water for the suffering fellow. Suddenly he began talking again:

“Señor Goncalves he came to me and asked would I take the Señors, uncle and nephew, up for the _Cause_ ... for the _Cause_. I was to wear the chute—I was to escape, Señor ... escape, eh?” He laughed feebly, bitterly. “Ah, but I am punished ... punished. It is I who don’t escape, eh? I who would see two innocent Señors die for the _Cause_ ... now....”

There sounded then through that dark, breathless atmosphere a call steeped in wretchedness and black despair—the wail of that lonely owl, known to bushmen as “the mother of the moon.” Hal had heard many times when lost in the jungle of Panama what portent was in that cry, and he was thinking of it then when Rodriguez raised his head with effort.

“Ah, Señor Hal!” he cried in a terrified whisper. “’Tis ‘the mother of the moon’ and evil to me, for I have heard it. Ah, Señor....”

“Lie back, old fellow,” Hal soothed him. “Now there, calm down! I’ve heard about Old Wise Eyes too, but you don’t think I believe it, do you? Back in the good old U. S. we’d call that hokum pure and simple. Nothing to it. It’s just an old owl hooting his blooming head off because he hasn’t the brains to do anything else. In other words he’s yelling _whoopee_ in Portuguese or Brazilian or whatever you spiggotty down here. I bet you haven’t understood a word of what I said? No? Well, I don’t blame you exactly.”

“I have not much time, Señor. I am weak ... the owl she....”

“Now for the love of Pete, Rodriguez, forget it!” Hal said, scolding him gently. “It tires you too much to talk about such hokum. Lie still and if you can only hold out perhaps Señor Carmichael will get help to us soon. He may have got a break and landed near some settlement.”

“Señor ... _Carmichael_?” asked the airman faintly.

“Sure,” Hal answered smiling, “that’s the fellow who went out in the chute—the fellow who came up with us. His name’s Carmichael. Oh say, I almost forgot, Rodriguez—of course you wouldn’t understand—Carmichael and I were only fooling you about him being my uncle. My real uncle couldn’t come—he backed out at the last minute. I met Carmichael at the field just before you came along. Understand?”

Rodriguez did understand—only too well. His ghastly face looked more ghastly than ever. He pressed desperately on Hal’s warm hand and sighed. Suddenly he released his own right hand and from forehead to breast devoutly made the sign of the cross.

“Señor Hal,” he gasped, “I am dying ... there is something I must tell....”