the flickering red lights from the dying flames of the fire lit up the walls of the hut as the curator sat, free, with his hands still behind him, considering what to do next. the fiery glow of embers under the hot stones urged him to speedy action, for already the tom-toms of trumpet-shaped papuan war drums and the whang of stringed instruments had struck up. the natives were yelling for the first prisoner to be brought out. he did not propose that their party should go on stumps for the rest of their lives.
he reached carefully for the hunting knife in his belt, and, leaning up against baderoon, his arm slipped behind him and cut his thongs. then the knife was passed on, and baderoon freed sadok. the three silently arose and crept toward the guards leaning out the door. fingers moved stealthily for their necks, while the boys watched them tensely. with a sudden pounce, both guards[99] were seized and dragged within the hut without a sound. sadok was strong as a gorilla, and his man soon ceased to struggle. the curator and baderoon had more trouble with theirs, for the black had only one good arm, but the guard was finally subdued, gagged, and tied after a silent tussle in which all three joined. then the boys were freed, and sadok jumped for his sumpitan, parang, and kriss, which leaned up against the walls of the hut.
“this way—quick now!” hissed the curator, pointing to the blank rear wall of the hut. sadok ripped a door in it with his kriss, while the curator drew his pistol, inserted a small metal cylinder in its breech, and shoved down hard with the muzzle of the weapon on an abandoned shield of the guards. a crinkly noise like a spring came from within it, and he smiled grimly and replaced the pistol in its holster. then they all crept out through the back wall into the dark jungle, baderoon helping himself liberally to weapons as he left.
dwight, tingling with excitement, automatic in hand, crawled along on all-fours behind the curator, who followed sadok, and so they worked steadily toward the beach[100] over the thick, soft duff. at length the last of the line of canoes, close to the boundary of mangroves, rose up ahead, and, one by one, they crawled around both sides of it, keeping below the gunwale out of sight. the lurid glow of the fire was behind them, and, silhouetted against it were circles of mop-haired savages, singing in unison with the beat of the drums, the warriors dancing around the fire.
quietly they rose and lifted the bow of the long boat. her stern was afloat and she gave easily, but it took their combined strength to shove her out. at last she floated, and they all got in, sadok giving her a last artful shove that sent her silently around the end of the mangroves and out of sight. they groped for paddles, dipped them noiselessly, and stole along, close to shore, not even a ripple coming from her prow. the noise behind them grew gradually more indistinct, until the rhythmical dub-dub of the drums alone reached them.
“whoosh!” sighed nicky, at last, and it seemed he had been holding his breath for a week. “some getaway! but it’s about time those beggars went for their lunch, though!” he observed, facetiously, while his[101] powerful shoulders swept the paddle easily. “‘my—word!’ as bentham would say, but i don’t fancy being fried on stones for these heathen! i’ve contributed too many blankets and things to missionary boxes—and i want my money back!” he laughed.
“quiet!” ordered the curator, sternly. “this show isn’t over yet, and there may be scouts along shore. we’ve got to make time!”
they bent to the paddles, driving the heavy canoe along down the shore of the lagoon. fifteen tense minutes passed, while black palm fronds and ragged banana leaves swept by overhead past the stars. they had put nearly a mile between them and the landing when—
“hist!” called the curator, stopping his paddle suddenly.
a riot of excited yells came faintly through the jungle.
“they’re wise! hep, boys! hep!” they drove the canoe along as fast as she could be made to go. she needed at least ten paddlers to get any real speed out of her, and the boys realized that there would be more doings this night! a clearer burst of sounds told that the natives had come down[102] to the beach and discovered their missing canoe. then torches glared out over the black, glassy water, and presently a fleet of canoes set out, each with a blazing brand flaming on its prow. some of them set out across the lagoon, others went upstream, and eight started down the shore, moving abreast and covering the water far out. nothing could escape them!
“make for the open, sadok!” called the curator over his shoulder to the dyak, who was stern paddle. “we haven’t a chance here, but we might get by them out beyond the last one out there.”
they drove the canoe out on the broad bosom of the lagoon, the lights from the eight flares streaming across the water to them in long red pencils, and it seemed incredible that they were not seen already. the curator, however, knew better the actual range of a flare visible from the eyes of a man in the boat with it, for he had tried it before, jacking deer. the lights came steadily on, yells and whoops blaring over the waters. the canoes soon passed them, in a long, straggly line between them and the shore.
they stopped their own boat and watched their pursuers.
[103]“gee! it’s a clean escape!” exulted dwight, “and we’re bows on, so it’s impossible to see us—” the enthusiasm in his voice trailed off as they all paused, holding their breaths, to watch the flare on the nearest canoe. it seemed to be parting in two and the second light grew to a long flame. then it suddenly rose in a high, curving arc as a flaming javelin went up like a rocket. a weird glare lit up the water far and wide.
“clever stunt! those savages are sure resourceful, i’ll say!” admired the curator. “we’re it, all right!”
a babel of yells arose from the nearest canoe as he spoke, and her light began to move out toward them, the flashes of her paddles winking like swiftly waving bars of light. the other canoes changed course likewise, and the whole pack fanned out in a sort of v, with the nearest canoe leading. a second flaming javelin soared into the night and lit up the waters. diabolical war whoops burst out from all the canoes this time, and amid exulting yells a few long-range, roving arrows fell into the lagoon around them.
“don’t anybody shoot, except sadok, until i say the word!” gritted the curator, “and i want you boys to call me eighty yards as[104] near as you can judge it when that canoe comes that near!”
arrows from the nearest boat now began to whistle overhead and fall into the bay with a sharp chrrp! like quenching hot iron.
“eighty yards, i think, sir,” whispered dwight a few moments later as he peered over the gunwale.
“just about,” muttered the curator, aiming his pistol carefully over braced knees. a sharp kjkrrr! came from the weapon as he pulled trigger. a tiny spark swept in a flat trajectory over to the canoe, and then, like detonation of thunder close at hand, came a stunning report and the white, blinding glare of the explosion of a shell. the flash gave them one tremendous, significant glimpse of flying splinters and the cannibal canoe doubling up like a broken stick—and then came pitchy, inky darkness, followed by the shouts of the savages swimming in the water and the roar of a wave rolling swiftly toward them which rocked their canoe to her beam ends.
“gad! i hate to shoot up these beggars, even if they are cannibals bent on dining off us!” exclaimed the curator, reloading. “hope they’re mostly scared to death! this second shell ought to do it.”
[105]he steadied the pistol on his knees and aimed at the second canoe, swooping down on them, the cannibals yelling and discharging flights of arrows into the night. again the blinding white flash and the terrific report. the curator had aimed it so as not to hit the canoe directly, and they saw a wave rise in front of her which engulfed the canoe and put her crew powerless in the water.
but the others came right on, regardless. “paddle, boys! make it quick and snappy! they’re closing in on us! once more ought to knock the fight out of them!” he reloaded hurriedly and fired at the third canoe, the shell exploding in midair right over it. the shouts from five canoefuls of bloodthirsty cannibals surrounding them, foaming up the water with their furious paddles, filled the night with pandemonium. their situation looked desperate now, for the outanatas seemed determined upon their recapture and they had lost some of their fear of the curator’s shells.
“fire, boys! for all you’re worth—i’ll give you light!” he yelled, whipping out his flashlight. “hold it, baderoon!” he ordered, as the rays from its parabolic reflector shot over the water.
[106]the automatics began to bark, while the negro crouched behind the gunwales, shivering with fear, yet holding the light steadily on two war canoes bunched close together. the curator aimed a short-range shell right over them, hoping to founder the remaining canoes. the fearful concussion of the t. n. t. knocked their own party sprawling, and, where there had been two canoes, now there was a boiling geyser of water in which they rose like tossed logs, their crews tumbling headlong through the white glare. it proved too much for the remaining three canoes. the flashlight showed them turning tail and paddling away in frantic haste.
“travel, nigger, travel!—that’s what t. n. t. means!” whooped the curator. “paddle, boys, after ’em—hard! i’m going to put the fear of god into these people!”
he aimed the air gun at a high arc, and the shell whistled on its way. high over the three canoes it exploded, with the strength of giant-powder fireworks. under its glare they could see the paddlers knocked hurtling with the concussion.
baderoon laughed uproariously. “yow-yowri! prenty debbil-debbil, orang-kaya! make’m thunder—boom! boom!”
[107]“threw a good scare into ’em! that’s the ticket!” grinned the curator. “they’ll swim ashore pretty well gentled, i’m thinking!—keep after ’em, boys, as hard as you can make her go! they’re gaining on us!”
he raised the air gun to its utmost elevation and the tiny streak of fire of the fuse rose in a high arc. it fell into the bay ahead of the three canoes, and there was a muffled thud which blew the whole bottom out of the bay. a white avalanche of water came roaring toward the three canoes and their bows rose dizzily and then the sterns flipped high in the air. a babel of yells and shouts told of one canoe upset, and then they steadied their own to meet the onrushing wave. it rocked giddily, like a bark canoe in a boiling rapids, and water slapped over her sides in a deluge, but her deep keel held her upright.
“bail, dwight—and you, too, baderoon!” ordered the curator. “nicky, you and sadok keep on paddling. don’t kill yourselves, as we’re out of range of them now. i’m going up to that village and lay down the law to that whole tribe! they’ll let white men alone, after that.”
they followed slowly in the wake of the two fleeing canoes, and finally lay floating[108] idly about a mile out in front of the village. the canoes that had gone across the lagoon and those from upstream had now returned, as they could see by the assembling flares at the landing. howlings and constant booming of drums came over the water. they dozed on the thwarts, letting the canoe drift and waiting for dawn. the noise on shore kept up throughout the night, but, after an interminable wait, a faint paling in the east, which swiftly grew to daylight over the calm waters of the lagoon, set them to paddling slowly toward the shore again.
as they drew near it was full daylight and the clouds overhead were already aflame with the rising sun. the curator loaded his air gun and stood up in the bow as they approached the landing. a deathlike silence reigned throughout the jungle. the long black canoes lay hauled up in rows, deserted, and not a sign of life appeared in the huts nor in the glades under the coco palms.
as their bow grated on the beach, the curator took careful aim at the largest of the huts and fired. the jungle shook with the sharp detonation as the building was torn asunder in crackling walls of bamboo and rattan which immediately took fire. runnings[109] and scamperings in the forest—and then all was silent as the grave again.
they stepped ashore in a compact little party, the boys with ready pistols, sadok’s long sumpitan sweeping every glade for a mark. the curator walked to the center of the clearing and swept the surrounding forest with his arm.
“pigs!” he pronounced, in the arfak dialect, waving his arm around comprehensively.
there were rustlings in the jungle, but no native dared show himself.
“tell them, baderoon, that white men are peaceful—when let alone. also, that the white man will not harm any chief if he will step out and talk.”
baderoon raised his voice, translating the curator’s message. absolute silence brooded in the jungle.
“tell them,” said the curator, and his voice rang like iron, “that the white man would be friends. but if they do not make a talk at once he will bring down his thunders and lightnings and utterly destroy this village, their canoes, and their coconut palms. i have spoken it.”
baderoon translated, and at this a grizzled old sinner with a white mop of woolly[110] hair stepped out trembling from behind a tree.
“if the white thunderer will only deign not to utterly destroy us!” he croaked, shaking all over as baderoon translated.
“ye shall call your old men to tow-tow; and ye shall send runners to every village, far and near, lest the thunders descend on them also!” declared the curator, sternly.
“it is agreed,” said the old man, finally, with shaking voice. “only let the white man not harm us further! many warriors and many canoes come not back because of him!”
he called into the forest and three other old men came unwillingly forth. they advanced, unarmed, to the edge of the clearing, stooping down and pouring sand on their heads in token of abject submission, but that was as far as they could be coaxed to come.
“it is well,” called the curator, at length, for he had no wish to risk any undue familiarity with them. “shoot something, sadok. i want them to fear you, too.”
sadok looked around for a mark, and his eyes lit on a wandering pig under one of the huts. he poised his sumpitan and the dart flew out of its muzzle. the pig squealed[111] and twitched his tail, and then went on rooting. in another moment he sighed and laid over, dead.
a shiver and a rustling of leaves ran through the underbrush.
“ye have seen the silent death, also,” said baderoon, raising his voice at the curator’s prompting. “do not eat the pig; it is taboo.”
one of the old men took off his boars’-tusk breastplate and stepped forward and laid it on the ground. he testified that it was a present. at a sign from the curator baderoon fetched it. the scientist examined it curiously. the white tusks were laid in rows, one atop the other, and their ends were bound with fiber network, thickly ornamented with polished red beads. the curator started with astonishment as he looked closely at them.
“ask him where they get those red beads, baderoon.”
there was some talk and waving of arms, and then baderoon turned to the curator. “him get’m big mountain—down there,” he said, pointing to the south. “mus’ fight litty hill men for him. prenty too-much trophy.”
[112]“tell him the white man is pleased, and will give a present, too.”
the curator undid his red-silk bandanna, and baderoon bore it over ceremoniously and laid it before the chief. the latter grinned, for the first time, and they could see that he was dying to handle it. he nodded at the curator with beaming eyes and made the pantomime of rubbing noses.
“nothing doing!” snorted the curator. “that’s where the earlier explorers all lose out! the natives soon find out we’re ordinary, vulnerable human beings, if you let them get too familiar. tell him, baderoon, that the white man says to start his runners at once, and never to touch another white man so long as he lives! farewell!”
he turned to go as baderoon translated. they walked back to the canoes and picked out a small one, more easy to handle. shoving off, they paddled down the lagoon, the curator sitting silently in the stern, for he knew that curious eyes were watching him from the jungle. a repressed eagerness shone in his own as he still examined curiously the boars’-tusk breastplate in his hands.
“well—i guess that’ll hold ’em for a time—eh, boys?” he smiled, raising his eyes from[113] it at length when they had left the village landing far behind. “and—i may have something important to tell you after we reach camp!”
“some weapon, that air pistol of yours, sir!” said nicky, admiringly. “how did you ever get such an idea?”
“oh, that was just a hang-over from the western front,” replied the curator. “i’ve been through any number of trench scrimmages, and i learned that it’s not the iron casing of grenades that does the most mischief, but the gas itself. it has far more rending power than that cast-iron shell of the grenade. remember our old air guns of boyhood? well, i sent some sketches to the factory and had them make me this pistol on the same lines. these light nickel shells of t. n. t. turned out to be as good as heavy grenades when i tested them. all that is needed is something to throw them with accuracy, so i had this gun made and a lot of shells, timed for eighty, fifty, and thirty yards—which is about as close as you can be to them with any safety. that’s all there is to it. beats the old dynamite stick that they used to use on the savages of the south seas all hollow, i’ll say!”
[114]they passed the floating wreckage of the night before as he spoke, and everyone set to work picking up paddles, spears, and arrows, the latter sticking up out of water, point down, like buoys. then the curator made a grab and hauled aboard a floating shield. it was of the same long, oval type that the war party had carried the day before, and he examined the red paint in the carving minutely with his magnifying glass.
“it’s the same mineral we found in aru, dwight,” he declared, after a close scrutiny. “wait till we get to camp; i’ve got a fine young idea hatching.”
that was all they could get out of him, but the paddles swept on more tirelessly than ever, for both boys were consumed with curiosity over the new mineral.
at length they came to their own headland, with the frowning ramparts of the mountains looming back of them endlessly to the south. here was the mouth of their creek, and up it they drove the canoe under the green arches of the jungle. after a time it came out at the old coral bank, and the abandoned sail proa showed up ahead, its bow still on the little beach. sadok and baderoon jumped ashore and set about getting their fire started,[115] while the boys dove for their provision sacks, for they had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours and were famished.
but the curator could not wait. he cut off a sliver from the red mineral paint in the shield scrolls and scraped a portion of it into a small test tube which he got out of his mess kit. filling it with a little water, he went over to nicky’s alcohol flame and brought it to a boil. then he opened a tiny bottle of acid and dropped a tear of it into the test tube.
“gad! boys!” he whooped. “what do you think of that?” he cried, holding up the tube, now filled with a cloudy yellow precipitate. “remember that red stone we got in the channels of aru, dwight? well, this is the same mineral, cinnabar, red oxide of mercury, boys! if there’s a mountain of it, as these natives tell us, back in the hills, we’ve got to find it, for, once it is reported, it will change the whole history of this part of new guinea. the stuff is worth its weight in gold!”
“three cheers for exploration!” mumbled nicky, his mouth stuffed with food. “have some, professor!”
