by W E Johns
‘Get some iodine on that,’ Biggles told him crisply, and he lost no time in complying, for the pain was acute.
Having done so he joined the others on the deck, from where, in silence and in safety, they watched the incredible procession on the bank. Ginger could not have imagined such a spectacle. The ground was black. Every leaf, every twig, was in motion, as if a sticky fluid was flowing over it. It was little wonder that he stared aghast, not knowing what to say.
‘I’ve seen armies of foraging ants before, but never anything like this,’ remarked Biggles. ‘They clean up everything as they go. Heaven help the creature, man, beast or insect, that falls in their path.’
‘How far do they stretch?’ asked Ginger, for as yet he could not see the end of the procession.
Biggles asked Dusky, who announced that the column might extend for a mile, perhaps farther. He had seen the same thing many times, and assured them that if the ants were unmolested they would soon pass on.
The comrades sat on the deck and watched until it was dark, but it was some time later before the volume of sound began to diminish. They then retired to the cabin, where Biggles switched on a light and produced some tins of food.
‘We may as well eat, and then get some sleep,’ he suggested. ‘We’ve got to make an early start tomorrow.’
Ginger went to sleep, to dream of ants. The forest had taken on a new horror.
10
SWIFT DEVELOPMENTS
GINGER was awakened in the morning by a wild shout from Biggles, a shout that brought him, still half dazed with sleep, to the deck. It was just beginning to get light, and it did not take him long to see what was amiss. The water, which normally was black, was now streaked with yellow, and was swirling past at a speed sufficient to cause the Wanderer to drag her anchor. There was, as far as he could see, no reason for this, and he said so.
‘It must be raining higher up the river,’ declared Biggles. ‘The water is rising fast. We shall have to tie up to the bank—the anchor won’t hold.’
By this time they were all on deck, and between them the machine was soon made fast to a tree-stump. Biggles stared for a minute at the sky, and then at the river.
‘We’ve no time to lose if we’re going to get that petrol,’ he said urgently. ‘Apart from the current, with all this mud coming down we soon shan’t be able to see a thing under the water. Algy, you stay here and look after things. Ginger, Dusky come with me.’ So saying, Biggles picked up a length of line, jumped ashore, and set off down the riverbank at a run, Ginger and Dusky following behind. Ginger noted that there was little, if anything, to mark the passage of the ants.
It did not take them long to reach the raft, where the water was only just becoming discoloured. Biggles carried a large piece of loose rock on board, and pushed off; then using the rock as an anchor, he brought the raft to a stop over the spot where the canoe had sunk—or as near to it as he could judge. Throwing off his jacket, and holding a spare piece of line, he prepared to dive.
‘Here! What about the alligators?’ cried Ginger in alarm.
‘I shall have to risk it,’ answered Biggles curtly. ‘We’ve got to get some petrol, or, we’re sunk. Dusky, you keep your eyes open for danger.’ With this Biggles disappeared under the water.
He had to make three dives before he located the sunken canoe. After this there was a short delay while the raft was moored directly over it. Then the work was fairly straightforward, and had it not been for the rising water, and the discoloration, it would probably have been possible to salve every petrol-can, for Biggles had only to tie the line to a handle while the others hauled it up. As it was, by the time seven cans had been recovered the river was in full spate, and the raft straining at its moorings in a manner which told them that their position was already perilous. With some difficulty they got the raft, with its precious load, to the bank, after which began the work of transporting the cans to the aircraft. By the time this was done the river was a swirling flood, bringing down with it debris of all sorts.
‘It’s getting worse,’ announced Algy, with a worried frown, as they poured the petrol into the tank. ‘We shall never hold the machine here in this, and if she gets into the rapids she’s a goner.’
‘We’ll go down the river to the coast and report to Carruthers,’ declared Biggles. ‘It’s no use going on with our job while that rat Chorro is at large, advising the Tiger of all our movements. We’ve got just about enough petrol to do it. Get those empty cans ashore, and stand by to cast off.’ So saying, Biggles went through to the cockpit.
Algy went forward to cast off the mooring-rope, but seeing that he was having difficulty with it, for the Wanderer was pulling hard, Ginger went to his help. At the same time Dusky started throwing the empty cans on the bank. In view of what happened, these details are important. Actually, just what did happen, or how it happened, none of them knew—beyond the fact that the line suddenly snapped. Ginger made a despairing grab at it, slipped, clutched at Algy, and dragged him overboard with him. The Wanderer, breaking free, bucked, and Dusky, caught in the act of throwing, also went overboard.
All three managed to reach the bank, while the Wanderer went careering downstream.
From the bank, Algy, Ginger and Dusky stared at it with horror-stricken eyes, too stunned to speak, helpless to do anything.
Ginger felt certain that the machine would be wrecked in the rapids. Not for a moment did he doubt it. And it was not until he heard the Wanderer’s engines come to life that he realised that Biggles still had a chance. He could no longer see the machine, for overhanging trees, and a bend in the river, hid it from view. But when, presently, the aircraft appeared in the air above them, and he knew that Biggles had succeeded in getting off, he sat down limply, weak from shock.
Algy looked at the machine, and then at the river. ‘He’ll never dare to land again,’ he announced.
‘He’d be a fool to try,’ declared Ginger: ‘At least, not until the flood has subsided,’ he added.
They watched the Wanderer circle twice; then, as it passed low over them, something white fluttered down, and they made haste to collect it. It was an empty tin; in it was a slip of paper on which Biggles had written, ‘Wait. Going to coast.’
‘That’s the wisest thing he could do—go down and fill the tank, and let Carruthers know about Chorro,’ remarked Ginger. ‘We shan’t take any harm here for a few hours.’
‘I hope you realise that we’ve no food, and that we haven’t a weapon between us except Dusky’s knife,’ muttered Algy.
‘In that case we shall have to manage without,’ returned Ginger.
‘Food—me find,’ put in Dusky confidently, indicating the forest with a sweep of his arm.
‘You mean you can find food in the forest?’ asked Algy hopefully.
‘Sure, boss, I find.’
‘What sort of food?’
‘Honey—roots—fruit, maybe.’
‘Good. In that case we might as well start looking for lunch.’
‘You stay—I find,’ answered Dusky. ‘Plenty fever in forest. I go now.’
‘All right, if that’s how you want it,’ agreed Algy.
Dusky disappeared into the gloomy aisles of the jungle.
For some time Algy and Ginger sat on a log gazing moodily at the broad surface of the river. There was little else they could do, for they dare not risk leaving the spot, in case Dusky should return and wonder what had become of them. It did not occur to either of them that they were in any danger. Perhaps they felt that in such a case Dusky would have warned them, although later they agreed that they were both to blame for what happened—but then it was too late.
They did not even see where the natives came from. There was a sudden rush, and before they realised what was happening they were both on their backs, held down by a score or more of savage-looking Indians armed with spears and clubs, bows and arrows. It all happened in a moment of time. Still dazed by the suddenness of the attack they were dragged to
their feet and marched away into the forest, menaced fiercely by the spears of their captors. They could do nothing but submit.
In this manner they covered some five miles, as near as they could judge, straight into the heart of the forest before the party halted in an open space on the bank of a narrow stream on which several canoes floated. A few primitive huts comprised the native village. Into one of these they were thrown, and a sentry was placed on guard at the entrance.
Inside, the light was so dim that they could see nothing distinctly, and Ginger was about to throw himself down to rest, for the long march through the oven-like atmosphere had reduced him to a state of exhaustion, when, to his utter amazement, a voice addressed him in English.
‘Say, who are you?’ inquired the voice, with a strong American drawl.
‘Who on earth are you?’ gasped Ginger when he had recovered sufficiently from his surprise to speak.
‘Eddie Rockwell’s the name,’ came the reply.
‘What the dickens are you doing here?’ demanded Algy.
‘Guess that’s what I should ask you.’
Algy thought for a moment or two. ‘We’re explorers,’ he announced, somewhat vaguely. ‘We’ve got a plane, but our chief has gone to the coast for petrol. While he was away this mob set on us and brought us here. That’s all. What about you?’
‘My tale is as near yours as makes no difference,’ answered Eddie quietly.
As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom the comrades saw that he was a young man in the early twenties, but in a sad state of emaciation. His clothes were filthy, and hung on him in rags.
‘Having more money than sense, I was fool enough to allow myself to be persuaded to start on a treasure-hunt,’ continued Eddie. ‘My father told me that the whole thing was a racket, and I reckon he was about right—but of course I wouldn’t believe it.’
‘A treasure-hunt?’ queried Ginger.
‘I saw an advertisement in a paper that a couple of guys knew where a treasure was waiting to be picked up. The map they had looked genuine enough, and I fell for it. I financed the expedition, and everything was swell until we got here. Then my two crooked partners just beat it with the stores and left me stranded. If you’ve tried getting about in this cursed jungle, you’ll know what I was up against. However, I did what I could. I blundered about till I struck a stream, and then started down it, figuring that sooner or later, if I could hold out, I’d come to the sea. Instead, I bumped into a bunch of Indians and they brought me here. I didn’t care much, because I was pretty well all in. I’d been staggering about without grub for a fortnight, and the Indians did at least give me something to eat. They brought me here, and here I’ve been ever since. That’s all there is to it.’
An idea struck Ginger. He realised that these must be the three Americans about whom Carruthers was so concerned. ‘You’ve been here for some time, haven’t you?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
‘How long?’
‘Say, ask me something easier. Weeks, mebbe months.’
‘These partners of yours,’ resumed Ginger. ‘Was one of them a tall, thin, jaundiced-looking bloke, with pale grey eyes and a big mouth, and the other a weedy-looking rat with hay-coloured hair and a wisp of moustache, stained with nicotine?’
Eddie uttered an exclamation of surprise. ‘Say, that’s them,’ he answered quickly. ‘I reckon you must have seen them?’
‘You bet we have,’ said Ginger bitterly, and then told their own story with more detail, including the events which had brought them into contact with the two white men in Tiger’s secret village. He also mentioned that the disappearance of the party had caused the authorities some trouble.
‘Say, now, what d’you know about that!’ exclaimed Eddie when he had finished. ‘Joe Warner and Silas Schmitt—they were my two precious partners—told me that there was a guy hereabouts who was boss of the whole works, but I didn’t realise that he was such a big noise as you make out.’
‘Your partners did, evidently,’ put in Algy. ‘They must have known that it was impossible for you to operate here without barging into him or his crowd, so it looks to me as if, having got you to finance them to the spot, they changed sides and left you in the lurch, knowing that you would never be able to get to the coast.’
‘That’s how it looks to me ‘ agreed Eddie. ‘Can you talk the lingo these natives use?’
‘Not a word.’
‘What do you reckon they’ll do with us?’
Algy shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea, but judging from their behaviour so far it won’t be anything pleasant.’
‘Then you reckon we haven’t a chance of getting away?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Our chief is down the river, but he’ll come back. Moreover, we’ve got a native servant about somewhere. It just happened that he was out of camp when the attack occurred, but when he gets back he’ll guess what has happened, and he ought to be able to trail us. So, on the whole, things may not be as bad as they look.’
Eddie seemed to take encouragement from Algy’s optimism. The conversation lapsed, Algy peering through one of the many flaws in the side of the hut in an endeavour to see what was going on outside. It seemed that the natives who had captured them were celebrating the event, with considerable noise.
He was still watching when, without warning, a volley of shots rang out from the edge of the jungle. Several Indians fell. More shots followed. There were wild shouts, and the assembled Indians broke up in disorder, scattering and flying for their lives, some into the forest, others flinging themselves into their canoes and paddling away in a panic. Among these was the native who had been on duty at the door of the hut, so there was nothing to prevent those inside from leaving.
For a few seconds Algy hoped that the attack might have been launched by Biggles, who in some miraculous way had returned with assistance; but when Bogat appeared, a rifle under his arm, followed by his gang, his heart, and his hopes, sank.
Bogat saw the three white men at once, and his lips parted in a villainous leer. He covered them with his rifle, and in another moment they were surrounded.
‘It looks as if we’ve fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire,’ murmured Ginger despondently.
‘Who is this guy?’ asked Eddie.
Briefly, Ginger told him. There was no time to go into details, for a rope was produced; the prisoners’ hands were tied behind them, and a rope was passed from one to the other.
Their captors, after setting fire to the huts, formed up in a rough column. Bogat took his place at the head of it, and the party moved off into the forest.
‘Where do you suppose they’re taking us?’ asked Eddie.
‘I should say we’re on our way to see the King of the Forest,’ returned Ginger.
A burly half-caste flourished a whip, and put an end to further conversation.
The prisoners trudged on in silence through the green jungle.
11
THE SNAKE
As it transpired, Biggles had just enough petrol to reach the coast. He at once sought Carruthers, who was not a little surprised to see him, and made him acquainted with all that had happened. Carruthers was furious when he heard of the fate of the emergency petrol canoe; but when the real character of Chorro was revealed he was aghast, for he had always regarded him as a trustworthy servant. Unfortunately, nothing could be done about him at the moment, for by a coincidence Chorro had just applied for, and had been granted, three weeks’ leave of absence.
‘Where’s he gone?’ inquired Biggles.
‘Up the river,’ answered Carruthers frankly. ‘He is supposed to have a bungalow somewhere, a matter of two or three days’ journey. He’s been up the river before.’
Biggles smiled grimly. ‘It’s more likely that he’s making a visit to the Tiger, to report on the situation.’
Carruthers nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ he replied slowly. ‘Never mind; I’ll deal with the scoundrel when he comes back.’
/> ‘If he does come back,’ put in Biggles smoothly.
Carruthers gave him an odd look, but made no further comment on the subject. Instead, he asked Biggles what he intended doing.
‘Have a bath, a square meal, fill up with petrol and take off again,’ Biggles told him. ‘I’m anxious to get back to the others.’
‘I still don’t see how we’re going to get hold of the Tiger and his crew,’ remarked Carruthers, with a worried frown. ‘I’d come back with you, but at the moment, with the Governor away, I can’t leave—at least, not for any length of time.’
‘I must admit it isn’t an easy proposition,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘However, we’re getting the hang of things, and sooner or later our chance will come.’
Further details were discussed, but nothing definite was arranged, and about two hours later, with full tanks, Biggles set off back up the river, relieved to see that the flood, which apparently had been caused by a local storm, had subsided.
He experienced a pang of uneasiness as he circled low over the camp and saw no sign of the others; but when he landed, taxied up to the bank and jumped ashore, still without them putting in an appearance, his uneasiness turned to alarm. For a few minutes he stood still, occasionally calling, but when this produced no result he began to examine the ground more closely.
Actually there was nothing to show what had happened—not until, in the long grass, he found a broken arrow. Even then he hoped that the arrow might be an old one that had lain there for a long time; but when he looked at the fracture, and saw that it was recent, he knew it was no use deceiving himself. Indians had been to the camp; this was so obvious that he no longer marvelled at the absence of Algy and Ginger. He spent some time hunting about in the bushes, dreading what he might find, and breathed a sigh of relief when his fears proved groundless. ‘They’re prisoners,’ he told himself, and that was bad enough.
For once he was at a loss to know what to do for the best. He dismissed all thought of the Tiger. He was concerned only with Algy and Ginger, and, to a less extent, Dusky, whom he had left with them. Naturally, they would have to be rescued, but how he was to set about this in the jungle he could not imagine. No project that he could remember had seemed so hopeless.
