for the next few days the water hole became a star collecting ground for the entire expedition. nicky was laid up a day in camp, recovering from the effects of the death adder’s poison, but he soon came to haunt the pond, for it and the stream that flowed past their camp were his main reliance for abundance of reptilian life.
“here’s where we make the main collection, fellows,” said the curator, as he and sadok came back to their temporary headquarters loaded with curious hook-billed macrorhina kingfishers, magnificent crowned pigeons, manucodia starlings of brilliant hues of plumage, blue flycatcher wrens, and many other species of the abundant bird life of new guinea.
“we’ll fill the main collection crates with a representative collection in all four divisions of natural history. that will leave us free to concentrate on the rarer varieties during[84] the exploration trip,” he continued. “i vote we have a pig hunt to-morrow. baderoon tells me he has discovered plentiful rootings down in that mass of high jungle that separates us from the mountain chain. we ought to lay in some fresh meat and cure some bacon before starting into the interior.”
“me for the hogfest!” crowed nicky. “i’ve about nailed every lizard, tree frog, and snakelet in this vicinity. what ammunition shall we use, sir?”
“for wild boar i’m inclined to the solid ounce ball in a twelve-gauge shotgun,” grinned the curator. “it’s the only thing that will stop ’em at close range. beats a high-power rifle all hollow, for it knocks ’em down to stay. i brought along some shells loaded with three-quarter ounce ball for our twenty-gauges, and we’ll serve ’em out to-morrow.”
on the next day the pig hunt was started. the wild pig of new guinea, sus papuana, is in several respects peculiar to himself. armed with those long tusks that the natives use for nose ornaments and breast shields, he is wild, long legged, and speedy as a deer. he has the typical asiatic screw tail, in place of the long straight one of the wild boar of[85] europe, but is almost hairless and provided with thick horny shoulder plates under the skin that will turn almost any bullet. like all pigs, he fights well when cornered, is very tenacious of life, and attacks with a slashing charge of his tusks, attempting to upset a man with his momentum and then turn and rend out his ribs with a powerful stroke of the long, sharp tushes.
baderoon and sadok disappeared into the jungle to get above their feeding ground and act as beaters, while the curator and the boys took up vantage points a short distance back from the creek in the swampy bottoms.
dwight soon found himself alone under the tall foliage, with vines and creepers crisscrossing in front of him and dense undergrowth, making it impossible to see thirty feet away, all around him. great, slippery roots buttressed out from the tree trunks, crawling over the muddy soil like alligator backs. nicky and the curator were farther on down the creek, both as silent as the grave, for it was essential to make no noise. dwight realized that he had been given the post of honor this time, and that it would be he who would bear the brunt of the charge. in spite of himself he found himself shivering[86] with excitement, opening his gun to peer at the shells, setting the safety on and off, and otherwise betraying symptoms that looked very like fear. he had never hunted wild boar before, and he found himself wishing that he had a bayonet or a spear or something to defend himself at close quarters. as it was, he would have to depend entirely on steady nerves and a well-placed bullet.
then, far up the jungle, he heard the distant noises of the infernal din that sadok and baderoon were making, yelling and beating with their spears on their shields. it was followed presently by faint squeals, and later he could hear the grunts, it seemed, of a whole drove of wild boars. they were coming like the wind, the undergrowth crackling under their hoofs, vines tearing and ripping and carrying away bush growth, and then the jungle floor fairly shook, as if locomotives were thundering down on him.
a swishing and waving in the undergrowth showed him that they would pass him about thirty yards off, between him and the creek. dwight sternly repressed an impulse to hang back and let them go by. to see clearly to shoot, he would have to run forward and plant himself nearly in their path.
[87]“don’t be a coward! into this, you boob!” he swore at himself, as he drove forward through the tangle of jungle growth. he ran out on a great prone trunk and peered into the moving bushes. they were going by, grunting and squealing with mixed terror and anger—five of them, and two great big fellows, with long, wicked ivory tushes curling around their snouts. dwight raised the twenty-bore, followed along back of the shoulder of the nearest, and fired. instantly a bawl of pain and rage went up as the boar stopped, whirling about a broken foreleg and looking about him red eyed with rage. the rest went thundering on, and a boom from the curator’s gun rang through the jungle. dwight’s boar spied him and came hitching toward him on three legs, grunting his rage. the boy had opened his gun to slip in another shell, so eager was he to have plenty of shots. in an electric shock of realization, he saw that he had not time to do anything of the sort. hastily snapping it shut, he drew a wavering bead and fired again. the ball hit somewhere in the shoulder and glanced off, but it put the boar in a frightful rage. he charged the log with a red glare in his eyes and leaped up, his tusks sweeping the[88] upper surface of it. dwight leaped off and reloaded frantically in the brief breathing space left him. with a leap like a deer, the boar went over the trunk, while dwight fired both barrels full into his head at six feet, and then turned and dashed into the jungle. a great vine caught under his armpits as the boy crashed into it, and it laid him sprawling in the thick bush growth. he wormed through it desperately, and reloaded, wondering all the time why he had not been gored and trampled to death. his heart pounded so that its rapid beats were audible as he opened his mouth to breathe. then he realized that the boar had not followed, and, plucking up courage, he stole back to look.
there lay the boar, threshing feebly about beside the log, his life slowly ebbing away. dwight watched him, afraid to come nearer, scarce daring to hope that he had won. a final convulsion, and the boar seemed to go to sleep as he gave a last little sigh and stretched his great head out on the jungle.
“whoops! i’ve got him!” yelled dwight, stepping nearer to prod at the carcass with his gun barrels.
“had a fat time with him, too, judging[89] by the noise!” laughed the curator’s voice. “i got one, too—nice pig.”
dwight remembered that the curator had fired but one shot—coolly and carefully placed, no doubt, but he was not ashamed. he had done well, for his first try! nicky had not fired at all, for the rest of the drove had swerved and crossed the creek in a splash at the two gunshots. he and the curator came over to look at his trophy.
“ought to cut out those and wear them in your nose, to be really fashionable in new guinea, dwight!” laughed nicky, pointing to the razor-sharp tushes. “i was just coming over to lend a hand to help the curator up a tree when he fired, and the rest of the family beat it across the creek. out o’ luck, as usual!” he grinned, cheerfully.
after a time sadok and baderoon came up and set about butchering the two pigs. the bacon flitches and hams from them were cured over a smoke rack during the next two days, while the party dined on fresh liver, and, later, pork chops, after the game had hung for a day.
on the third morning the whole party left camp with two days’ provisions, to make a[90] first exploration of the table-lands back in the mountains. they steered across the jungle by compass, sadok and baderoon clearing the way with their parangs. then the ground began to rise, and slowly they worked up from the wild profusion of equatorial jungle into the more arid growths of the mountain side. the going became easier, as on all high ground, and the nature of the wild life and vegetation began to change. new insects and birds became numerous, and their progress was slow because nearly all of them were wanted for the collections, and the curator knew from long experience that the time to take a specimen was when you saw him, for you might not get another.
by midafternoon they had reached the plateaus near the notch in the mountains, and here they encountered their brook again. but what a different stream from the smooth, deep, jungly creek flowing silently down below through overhanging arches of vines and creepers! here its bed was wide and pebbly as any northern stream, the creek following the deepest parts, with dry bars of pebbles scoured clean by former freshets. wild trees of the coffee and euphorbia families, thorns, and acacias dotted the stream[91] banks. it was hot up here, but dry, and a pleasant place to live in. the curator was examining the pebbles eagerly, to get some idea of the rock formations of the mountains, when sadok whistled softly and pointed upstream. a party of tall black natives was threading through the forest, and their leaders were already splashing across the stream bed! they stopped instantly as they spied the khaki helmets of the explorers, and more warriors joined them. it was a war party, as they could tell by the white-streaked faces, the weapons they carried, and the white breastplates of boars’ tusks that they had seen in museums before.
“outanatas,” said the curator, quietly, as their party drew together for support. “we’ll stand right here and watch what they do.”
the tall, slender, mop-haired savages splashed through the creek, about twenty-five of them in the party, and they were armed with spears, bows, and clubs. each man had a shield on his left arm, made of some tough wood, carved in red and white scrolls. they shouted and yelled at the curator’s party as they bunched together on the strand of the creek, and then came running swiftly down the pebbly drift, their[92] long skinny legs shining with white amulets of sea shells.
“holler, ‘friends!’ at them, baderoon-boy,” said the curator as they came nearer, hesitating and staring at the white men.
“muana komia!” cried baderoon, dropping his bow and shield in sign of amity.
the natives yelled. whether it was friendly or derisive they could not tell. then they formed in an irregular line and began a war dance toward the party.
“they’re showing off, i think,” declared the curator. “if they meant war, every man jack of them would have melted into the jungle and be shooting at us by now. still, we’d better be on our guard.”
he dug into a flap pocket of his belt and took out a trench grenade, while the boys loosened their revolver flaps cautiously, their shotguns hanging loosely in their arms. sadok reached for his parang, but the curator stopped him.
“not yet, sadok; we can’t make the first hostile move. i’ll give an order if i think they’re getting dangerous.”
the natives came on, yelling and dancing. most of them wore long white boars’ tusks through the nose and curving up around[93] their cheeks, giving them a singularly fierce aspect. some had white shell combs dangling low over their foreheads, and nearly all wore a collection of white shell rings hanging in their ears. they brandished their spears and clubs as they advanced and retreated, going through the pantomime of mimic warfare. they made diabolical faces and thrust out red tongues at the explorers as they came closer, but whether it was war or peace even baderoon could not tell them.
the boys watched the war dance, striving to quiet the shivers of apprehension that would persist in rising. it was harder to bear there than any amount of fighting, and they had much preferred standing off any number of natives well hidden in the bush.
at about fifteen yards off, the line of natives had worked themselves into furious action, stabbing with their spears at the air, the rows of hideous shields dancing like evil genii from some other world. as more of them spread out on each flank, a guttural shout came from one of the tallest.
“shoot, orang!” shrieked baderoon, but he was too late! from behind each native’s shield swung a black arm holding a short stick of bamboo. they swept forward like[94] flails, and instantly the air was filled with blinding fine sand and ash dust. it closed their eyes with the acrid, cutting particles, and involuntarily their arms went up to shield their faces, while guns went off aimlessly. sadok flashed out his parang in the cloud, and the curator jumped back to throw his bomb, but there was no room to use it. the natives closed in on them in a whirlwind of grabbing, skinny arms. dwight saw stars as a club descended on his helmet, and everything went white before him. he was dimly conscious of a last impression of sadok standing off three of them with his parang, and the curator buffeting his way through the shields toward him with bare fists, when his senses left him....
when he came to he was lying on the ground with his arms tightly bound behind him. nicky and the curator were sitting up, also tied, and beyond them was sadok, his head covered with blood where they had clubbed him. an occasional suppressed groan came from baderoon; only themselves could understand the agony he was enduring, with his wounded arm ruthlessly trussed up like their own.
the outanatas were chattering and arguing[95] around them. finally a long rope was brought and the captives tied together, a loop of it in a single knot around each of their necks, so that any attempt to escape would bring it tight. then they were all dragged to their feet and formed in a line, with a double file of natives on each side, and the party set off through the jungle.
the way led back through the same trail the natives had come up on, the jungle path working gradually down toward the lagoon. the boys did little talking, for it seemed to make their captors angry, but they had plenty of time to think as they marched along. dwight noted that the curator still carried his queer pistol, and their own were in the holsters yet, for the natives had dropped the flaps in disgust at the first sight of steel. their shotguns were being carried by a couple of natives, each holding it with a wad of moss in his hand to protect it from the touch of steel, against which they had a taboo. sadok’s sumpitan, with its spear blade lashed to its muzzle like a spear, they could understand, and his parang and nicky’s were in the hands of their captors. they evidently respected these as real weapons of war, as they also did baderoon’s bows and[96] arrows and both the shields, for these were being carried along as trophies.
by nightfall the trail pitched suddenly downward toward the lagoon, and the warriors raised their voices in an exulting chant. it was answered by the deep boom of war drums, and presently they came down to a native village on the shore of the lagoon. the mangroves had been cleared away here, and on the beach were some twenty long black canoes, hauled up, their high carved prows looming darkly against the glassy surface of the waters, greenish orange in the dying hues of twilight.
the huts of the village were of bamboo, arched up from ground to ground over a stout ridge pole, and thatched with palm attap. an excited crowd of native men gathered around their party, while the warriors went on singing and dancing, telling in vigorous pantomime the story of their capture. there seemed to be no central chief, but some of the older and more powerful warriors at length came to some sort of agreement, and they were all thrust into an empty hut, the men who had captured their weapons claiming the duty of being guards.
the explorers sat watchful on the clean[97] sand floor of the hut, with their guards standing in the doorway. a great fire was started out in front, and they could see even the women and children, now, venturing from the huts. log after log was piled on the fire, and then pairs of natives passed the door, carrying between them huge, rounded stones. one after another these were laid on the fire, and gradually they became red hot underneath, while the upper surfaces were smooth and sooty in the licking flames.
“prenty bad!” whispered baderoon in the curator’s ear. “fire dance! make you-fellah hopp’m on rock till he cook you’ foots. den dey kai-kai dat foots. leg, he stop, ’til next time. all kai-kai some day.”
it was time to act! the curator shifted his trick ring with his thumb and opened the catch when it came inside his palm. his fingers closed around his right wrist and sought the binding of twisted pandanus leaf. a steady scratch-scratching of the little blade in the ring on the leaf fiber went on, while their guards looked out the door, watching the preparations.
