“baderoon, how call-him that place chief-fellah get red paint?” asked the curator, turning to baderoon from the test tube in his hand.
“red mountain!” said baderoon, promptly.
“good lord!” ejaculated the curator. “there can’t be a whole mountain of cinnabar, you know! why, you could buy out the united states treasury with it! might be a stratum of it—but, no; ‘red’ mountain! if there’s enough of the ore in sight to give it that name, it’s something we’ve got to see and report. everything else is insignificant compared to this, boys!” he exulted. “i discovered a mountain once, in mexico, near the top of which was a thick vein of cinnabar. some day they’ll run a railroad in there and get it out, it’s so valuable. but a whole mountain of it, and right handy to the sea! why, man, it’ll make holland the queen of[117] the world again! think how the world’s mercury is hoarded, for making fulminate, for every primer and every shell fuse that is shot!” he went on, excitedly. “think of the explosives possible, with unlimited supplies of mercury. t. n. t. isn’t in it, compared with some of the fulminates! the japs won the russian war with their new camphor shell, but their supply of camphor is limited. some day there will be a big war over red mountain, take it from me!”
“’ray for exploration!” crowed dwight. “come on, mr. baldwin; here’s some nice wallaby steak!”
the curator grinned as he came back to earth and bit into the succulent meat. “just the same, boys, we’re going to see that mountain, or die in the attempt. the only thing that worries me is how to handle the pygmies. it’s right in their country, and we’ll have to wade through them to get there. they were peaceable enough with the english expedition, but that was only because they were afraid to start anything. they’re always at war with the papuans, and there’s a sort of no-man’s land between the jungle and the foothills which cannot be crossed by either side without a fight. however, the first[118] thing for us to do is to jerk the rest of this wallaby meat and each man carry along a bag of pemmican made of it.”
they erected a pole jerky frame that afternoon, and started a small drying fire under it, with long strips of the meat hanging in rows from the poles. under the hot tropical sun the drying process went on apace, and soon the strips had become hard sticks of meat, greasy to the touch, hard and fibrous as wood. steadily, also, the collections grew larger, box after box being filled with dwight’s insects, nicky’s reptiles, and the curator’s birds, while their big tin of bird skins was filled up and sealed. this main collection was to be a representative one of the whole region, after which only the rarer specimens need be sought for. on the third day the crate of collections boxes was cached, well hidden in a coral cave dug in the thickets.
meanwhile sadok set about replenishing his supply of poisoned arrows, as his quiver of them had run low. he cut a quantity of the long thorns of the sago palm, and near the bottom of each he lashed a little cone of the corklike bark, so that it would just fit in the bore of the sumpitan, which was about three eighths of an inch in diameter. for[119] poisoning the points he had a supply of the gummy juice of the upas tree, brought from borneo and carefully kept in a small bamboo bottle which hung on his belt.
sadok was grouched. a faint but noisesome odor came from somewhere in the jungle, where his three heads were drying, but here, look you, had been two fights with the outanatas since, and never a head for his personal collection! he was comforted, however, by the curator telling him that the upas vine, or some other representative of the strychnine family, grew in new guinea, also, and that there would be plenty of ructions before he ever saw borneo again.
their stay at this camp had given them not only a fair idea of the general features of the country, but of the weather as well. under the west monsoon, its daily changes were as regular as clockwork. a fine cool dawn, followed by several hours of misty and clearing weather when it was good to be up and doing; then the heat of midday, when even the jungle people knew enough to take a siesta; and then, about four o’clock, a tropical thunderstorm of the utmost violence, lasting until eight at night, when the sky cleared off. they soon learned to plan[120] their day according to these weather changes, and at length the party broke camp for the long trek into the mountains. they followed much the same trail as before, to the table-lands along the mountain flank, and stopped for lunch on the pebbly site of their capture by the war party of the outanatas of the week before.
but with what different feelings now! then the fear of the unknown, the dread of meeting cannibal savages who would surely regard them as but strangers to be killed and eaten at sight. now a feeling of confidence replaced all that. they had established the superiority of the white man in all that region, the respect in the native mind that is based only on superior force. not even a native runner had dared show his face since that punitive expedition of the curator’s. they even felt confident to hunt singly, not too far from the main party. while the others were settling down for the noonday siesta in the heat of midday, dwight spied a flash of brilliant orange in the greens of the jungle across the creek, and set out alone after the bird, shotgun in hand. the orange spot flew off into the jungle as he drew near it, but dwight had caught a[121] glimpse of black-velvet plumage, and that flaming fire of orange on the throat, which made him tingle all over with the thrill that it might be the exceedingly rare six-shafted bird of paradise! he followed on through the jungle, his eyes fixed on that small dot of black perched far ahead, high in the tree tops. moving as cautiously as he could, he worked through the festooned creepers and the huge boles of giant jungle trees toward his prize. but to his chagrin, it flew off again, just as he was about to try the spiteful little twenty-gauge at long range.
the boy’s eyes followed the bird avidly. to bring back a six-shafter! why, all this expedition had been for just such a prize as this! nothing is known of this bird save what can be conjectured from the few skins now in the world’s museums. to add one more to that meager collection, each specimen with who knows what story of adventure and privation behind it, seemed to dwight a corking enterprise. using all the woodcraft he possessed, he worked silently through the jungle. experience had taught him to look ahead for a place to plant each footstep, not only to be sure that one did not step on a snake, but also to insure the[122] foot coming down in position to fire instantly. with gun muzzle up, he advanced carefully, praying earnestly that his quarry might linger just a few minutes more.
again the paradise bird fluttered off, and this time dwight had but a line on where he had gone, for the last glimpse of him disappeared through the jungle, far off through the tree trunks. he groaned with disappointment, but he was not the boy to give up while there was a ghost of a chance left. fixing on a tall erythrina as the last tree past which the bird had soared, he set out as fast as possible. in perhaps half an hour he reached the tree, and, taking the range, set out again, his eyes scrutinizing the leafy foliage of the jungle roof. he had about begun to lose hope now, and, moreover, to realize that he was totally lost in the jungle, far from his companions, when a flutter of wings some distance ahead showed him his siren bird, flitting about and feeding on clusters of blue tropical berries that hung in the foliage of a high tree top that loomed up ahead.
dwight heaved a sigh of relief. the bird would surely stay there, feeding, and he had plenty of time for a careful stalk. he[123] wormed through the jungle, and at last arrived where an aim could be had, at not more than forty yards. raising the gun carefully, he fired, and down came his prize, at last!
it was with a sort of breathless wonder that dwight looked over the six-shafted bird of paradise as he lifted it gently out of the dense undergrowth in which it had fallen. why did nature lavish such abundant beauty on a bird destined never to be seen by eyes that could appreciate it? human eyes, that is, for, of course, the bird would be forever a delight to the eyes of that dull-colored little mate of his whose protection demanded something less gorgeously visible. it made him feel how insignificant is man in nature’s world. man, the animal, as exhibited by the naked savages who inhabited this forest was nature’s own child; assuredly this bird was not so decorated to please him! man, the intellectual, civilized man, could feel a thrill of rapture over this creature of nature’s, admire its intense golden-orange throat scales, its rich, velvety, purple-black plumage, its crown of vivid emerald and topaz colors, with the long wire-haired plumes springing back like a coronet from its head; but nature[124] cared nothing for intellectual man and his mind, which was not of her doing, and she certainly did not make this bird for him! in fact, we are each one of us two people, dwight philosophized, amusing himself with these fancies as he examined the paradise bird in his hand—man the animal, the creature of nature, living very like the animals themselves and dependent on her, like them; and man, the intellectual, a creature of a power that is above nature, the being from whom sprang art, religion, philosophy, science, all the things that are above nature and essentially antagonistic to her. but in the end nature always has her revenge, for her jungles reclaim proud cities, as in india and central america, or her deserts isolate them, as athens and the parthenon, or her sands bury them, like egypt and the sphinx.
“all that sermon from one small tropical bird!” laughed dwight to himself, carelessly, as his thoughts came back to earth again. “nature may be irreconcilably hostile to us—but, where am i now, and how am i going to get out? that’s the real question for this man!”
he had no idea how or where his wanderings[125] in pursuit of the paradise bird had taken him. all that was certain was that he had not crossed the creek again, and that he was somewhere east of it. he laid a course west with the compass, and set out, confident that he would sooner or later strike the stream.
but nature proceeded to show him how utterly insignificant to her is man. the first indication of it was a large plop of her tropical rain which fell on his helmet. dwight looked up, surprised to see the sky overcast and the thunders of the daily afternoon tropical storm muttering in the mountains. he must have been several hours following this six-shafter! he hurried on back toward the creek, stumbling through the jungle and striving to stifle panicky impulses to run. it was essential to keep his head, and to pick out landmark trees, methodically, ahead on his course, for you cannot steer yourself like a ship with the compass in the jungle. he forced his attention upon this, ignoring the raindrops, the steady patter of which kept up in the tree tops. the wetted undergrowth soon soaked his thin khaki. he now bitterly regretted setting out without his pack. just a moment to have shouldered it would have been enough, but he had been[126] too eager, too afraid to lose sight of his precious prize.
a distant roar of wind, and an angry cannonade of thunder came from the west, setting the jungle to rocking and tossing overhead, while birds flew wildly through the tree tops, croaking and screeching harshly. dwight stopped and listened to it. he was trembling all over with the wet cold, and sharp chills were running through him. now or never was the time for a signal, for no sound would carry far after the rain came. he raised his gun, fired both barrels, and listened with all his ears.
no answer, save the roar of the rain, sounding louder and louder and coming nearer and nearer. he looked about for the largest tree near him and ran for it. the branches of wind-lashed forest were now parting overhead, and out of the dark gray came vivid flashes of lightning which filled the jungle with winking light. the long ropes of creepers which climbed up to the branches of his tree from the jungle floor swung solemnly in the wind, and dwight crept under them and huddled close against the trunk, cowering in the buttresses of the great roots.
then came the rain, in furious white sheets[127] that filled the forest with a flying haze. it soaked him instantly to the skin, while peal after peal of thunder went off like cannon shots. an ungovernable terror seized the boy—the fury of the wind-driven rain, the loneliness, the crashing and riving of limbs and branches—and he lifted up his voice in one last, despairing yell with every ounce of lung power that he possessed.
there was no answer—save a low, sibilant hiss, which sounded through the lowering gloom, close at hand, whispering sharp and clear in his ears above the noise of the storm! dwight, startled with a shiver of fright, looked up, to perceive that one of the great vines overhead was not a creeper, but a huge python, lowering himself steadily, his neck crooked, and his head drawn back to strike at him! his gun flashed to shoulder, and both barrels went off blindly as the boy’s nerves collapsed with the shock of horror and he sank down in a shivering heap. he had a dim feeling of yards and yards of snake tumbling down through the vines beside him, but he seemed not to care about it at all, for it was comfortable down here between these roots ... if he could only find a place for his head....
[128]when he came to it was pitch dark and the storm had gone on. a scampering of jungle rats made off through the black as dwight moved his cramped limbs wearily, to find them aching all over and his face hot and flushed with fever, while violent chills kept running upward through his body.
he peered about him, bewildered; then conscious ideas began to pelt in upon him.
“f-f-fire! quick-ick as i can m-make one!” he chattered to himself, fumbling for his pocket flasher. its small but brilliant light lit up the jungle, causing many an outcry of night birds and a scurrying over the forest floor of land crabs and small marsupials. it also revealed the tumbled heap of the python lying beside him, its neck shot in two and parts of its reticulated length already gnawed by rodents. he glanced at it casually; to get wood that would burn was the real worry now! the jungle was black as a pocket, and a wan mist hung through it. after one flash of the light on those miasmas, drifting like pale death through the trees, dwight hurriedly got out his medicine kit and swallowed some quinine. then he sought kindlings in the underbrush, breaking twigs here and there, but they were all[129] sodden and moldy. he felt sick all over and burning with fever, and he wanted to lie down again and sleep forever; but it was most imperative to stay alive, so he started off through the jungle in search of firewood, stumbling westward by compass, until a great tangle of vines ahead of him told of a prone dead tree.
his spirits rose as his eye lit on it, and he pushed his way under the great bole with ready shotgun, for he could not tell how many jungle dwellers might have camped under it during the storm. a grand scampering and creeping rustled the dry leaves under the trunk, but it soon stopped and the flashlight showed the cavelike space all clear. dwight shouldered his way into it, and at once cleared a space for a fire and began peeling off strips of dry bark from the under side of the tree. blessed, blessed fire! the one human thing in all this dark jungle! that was the turning point in his mental distress, for dejection gave way to cheerfulness, wandering homelessness to a hearth and a campfire. soon the warmth of its small blaze penetrated even his chilled bones, and it and the quinine gradually drove off his fever. dwight waited out the night[130] under the trunk, trying the cave man’s posture of sleep, squatting on his hams with his head resting on arms crossed over his knees (still used by the hill men of india and by many tribes of the malay archipelago). he found it not so bad, even though irksome to a white man’s heel tendon. keeping the fire going with bark and small branches broken from the tree trunk, he gradually dried out, and at length there came the dawn of another day and the jungle awoke to life.
starting off by compass again, he steered due west, bound in time to strike the brook. it was not for an hour more of traveling that the jungle began to lighten on ahead, and bits of sky, glimpses of mountain side, and the tops of low trees told him he was coming to where the brook skirted the plateau. dense, thorny underbrush began to block his way now, and beyond it came the rippling murmur of the stream. he shouted for the curator and his party, hoping that he was near enough to camp for his voice to be heard. no answer came, except the sough of the wind over the grasses and bushes of the plateau, so dwight decided to get out into the open and study the mountains for[131] something familiar. he forced his way to the stream-side and jumped across.
he discovered, from the familiar headlands of the mountain chain, that he was some distance above camp. it seemed well to fire another signal in the open, and he was about to do so when three large birds as big as ostriches jumped from the grass in the swales and began to run, making a scraping, cackling noise something like the wild brush turkey.
“cassowaries!” exclaimed dwight, thrilling with adventure again as his gun sprang to shoulder. they were running like deer, their red, wattled heads and bright-blue necks stretched out ahead like giant chickens. his shotgun held only sixes, so dwight aimed for the speeding head of the nearest cassowary as at a flying quail, swinging ahead and firing like a wing shot.
the cassowary went down, while the other two flapped off in a wild burst of speed, using their wings to aid their legs. dwight rushed out, intending to finish off his bird with the knife, as he did not wish to injure the skin of the specimen with a close-up shot. the great bird lay in the grass as he came up, its fiery eye looking at him, unconquered,[132] like a rooster that has been worsted in a fight. as he rushed up it flew at him, squawking discordantly. dwight beat him off with the barrels of his gun. the air seemed full of the great black wings of his adversary, blinding him with blows of the coarse, double-quilled pinions. it never occurred to him that a cassowary could be really dangerous, and he laughed confidently as the heavy bird fell to the ground and prepared to spring again. with the second leap its long blue neck lunged out and its blunt bill caught his shirt collar and held on like a snapping turtle, while its stout legs drummed fiercely on his chest. dwight felt the canvas of his coat being ripped, and then a sharp pain seared down his breast to the belt like a hot iron. he was now fighting off the cassowary desperately, stabbing blindly, and warding off the blows of the wings on his head with his left arm. the tearing and rending of its legs on his chest kept up with increasing violence, and he was forced to bring his elbows in close to protect his stomach, dropping his knife and grabbing with his hands at the stout feet of the cassowary—anything to prevent being disemboweled!
then a shiver went through the bird, its[133] eyes fluttered closed, and the grip of its bill loosened, while the boy tugged himself free. he jumped for his knife in a battling rage, intending to close in and finish his adversary, who was now kicking feebly, when he heard a shout, and turned to see sadok and the curator come running across the swales. a sumpitan dart sticking in the bird’s side told all!
“did he hurt you?” yelled the curator, sprinting toward him. “don’t ever go near a wounded cassowary, you darn fool!” he exploded, wrathfully, as he came up. “don’t you know they’re more dangerous than a kangaroo? look!”
he stooped and held up the bird’s claw. on the inside toe was a long hooked talon, curved and sharp as a tiger’s claw.
“did he get you with it?” demanded the curator, looking at him anxiously, for dwight still stood looking at him, speechless, holding to his chest with his left hand.
“guess he did!” gasped the boy, swaying weakly. he lifted his hand and his fingers ran red with blood.
“catch him, sadok!” warned the curator as his own hand dove for the first-aid in his hip pocket. dwight leaned against sadok’s[134] strong shoulder, while the curator opened his shirt and examined the wound hastily. two long gashes in his chest bled rather freely, but nothing serious had been cut.
“lucky for you, son! he’d have ripped you open just as nice! lots of new-chums have been killed that way!” said the curator, cheerfully.
“lie down awhile; you’ll feel better presently,” he ordered, for dwight was white as a sheet. “but, congratulations, boy, first of all, on your getting back to us! i had not time to say so, you know, in the excitement of this ruction,” he apologized. “we’ll have to hunt in pairs in the future. where have you been, dwight, and why did you stay out all night?”
“it was worth it!” smiled the boy, feebly, and he dug into his coat pocket and brought out the six-shafted bird of paradise, carefully swathed in his handkerchief.
the curator undid the fastenings; then a whoop of joy escaped him.
“boy!” he beamed, reaching forward to shake dwight’s hand again. “it sure was worth it! man, it’s the big prize of the expedition—so far!”
he and sadok then fired shots and called[135] until they brought nicky and baderoon out of the jungle. nicky came up on the run.
“where’s dwight? what’s happened?” he cried, anxiously; then, catching sight of dwight: “you—old—hatrack!” he burbled, flinging himself affectionately on his chum. “say, the whole camp was worrying about you and firing guns, last night! get lost in the jungle?”
“nope. he got—this!” cut in the curator, holding up the flaming glories of the paradise bird for nicky to admire. “and then—a cassowary tried to scrape an acquaintance with him, so to speak!” he laughed, pointing out the huge bird lying in the grass, with sadok working over his skin.
“and, b’lieve me, your li’l’ old dart got there just in time!” chirped dwight from the grass. “shake, sadok!”
“make a stretcher out of a couple of coats and two poles, boys!” ordered the curator, energetically, as sadok finished the cassowary skin with a grunt of satisfaction. “we four’ll tote him to camp. how about camp cassowary for a name for this stop, hey, boys?”
