The Tom Swift Megapack

by Victor Appleton

  “Not for sale,” answered Tom with a laugh.

  They camped in a fertile valley that night, and had a much-needed rest. As yet Tom had made no inquiries as to the location of giant land from any of the natives of the villages or towns through which they passed. He knew as soon as he did begin asking questions, his own men would hear of it, and they might be frightened if they knew they were in an expedition the object of which was to capture some of the tall men.

  “We’ll just go along for a few days more,” said Tom, to Ned, “and then, when I do spring my surprise, they’ll be so far from home that they won’t dare turn back. In a few days I’ll begin making inquiries.”

  They traveled on for three days more, ever heading north, and coming more into the warmer climate. The vegetation began to take on a more tropical look, and finally they reached a region infested with many wild beasts and monkeys, and with patches of dense jungle on either side of the narrow trail. Fruits, tropical flowers and birds abounded.

  “I think we’re getting there,” remarked Tom, on the evening of the third day after his talk with Ned. “San Pedro says there’s quite a village about half a day’s march ahead, and I may learn something there. I’ll know by tomorrow whether we are on the right trail or not.”

  The natives were getting supper, and Eradicate was busy with a meal for the three white hunters. Mr. Damon had strolled down to the bank of a little stream, and was looking at some small animals like foxes that had come for their evening drink. They seemed quite fearless.

  Suddenly something long, round and thick seemed to drop down out of a tree close to the odd gentleman. So swift and noiseless was it that Mr. Damon never noticed it. Then, like a flash something went around him, and he let out a scream of terror.

  San Pedro, who was nearest to him, saw and heard. The next instant the black muleteer came rushing toward the camp, crying:

  “He is caught in a rope! Mr. Damon is caught in a rope!”

  “A rope!” repeated Ned, not understanding.

  “Yes, a rope in a tree. Come quickly!”

  Tom caught up one of the electric rifles and rushed forward. No sooner had he set eyes on his friend, who was writhing about in the folds of what looked like a big ship cable, then the young inventor cried:

  “A rope! Yes, a living rope! That’s a big boa constrictor that has Mr. Damon! Get a gun, Ned, and follow me! We must save him before he is crushed to death!”

  And the two lads rushed forward while the living rope drew its folds tighter and tighter about the unfortunate man.

  CHAPTER XII

  A NATIVE BATTLE

  “Bless my—!” but that was as far as poor Mr. Damon could get. The breath was fairly squeezed out of him by the folds of the great serpent that had dropped down out of the tree to crush him to death. His head fell forward on his breast, and his arms were pinioned to his sides.

  “Quick, Ned!” cried Tom. “We must fire together! Be careful not to hit Mr. Damon!”

  “That’s right. I’ll take the snake on one side, Tom, and you on the other!”

  “No! Then we might hit each other. Come on my side. Aim for the head, and throw in the highest charge. We want to kill, not stun!”

  “Right!” gasped Ned, as he ran forward at his chum’s side.

  San Pedro, and the other natives, could do nothing. In the gathering twilight, broken by the light of several campfires, they stood helpless watching the two plucky youths advance to do battle with the serpent. Eradicate had caught up a club, and had dashed forward to do what he could, but Tom motioned him back.

  “We can manage,” spoke the young inventor.

  Then he and Ned crept on with ready rifles. The snake raised its ugly head and hissed, ceasing for a moment to constrict its coils about the unfortunate man.

  “Now’s our chance—fire!” hoarsely whispered Ned.

  It seemed as if the big snake heard, for, raising its head still higher, it fairly glared at Ned and Tom. It was the very chance they wanted, for they could now fire without the danger of hitting Mr. Damon.

  “Ready?” asked Tom of his chum in a low voice.

  “Ready!” was the equally low answer.

  It was necessary to kill the serpent at one shot, as to merely wound it might mean that in its agony it would thresh about, and seriously injure, if not kill, Mr. Damon.

  “Fire!” called Tom in a whisper, and he and Ned pressed the triggers of the electric rifles on the same instant.

  There was a streak of bluish flame that cut like a sliver through the gathering darkness, and then, as though a blight had fallen upon it, the folds of the great snake relaxed, and Mr. Damon slipped to the ground unconscious. The electric charges had gone fairly through the head of the serpent and it had died instantly.

  “Quick! Mr. Damon! We must get him away!” cried Tom. “He may be dead!”

  Together the chums sprang forward. The folds of the serpent had scarcely ceased moving before the two youths snatched their friend away. Dropping their rifles, they lifted him up to bear him to the sleeping tent which had been erected.

  “Liver pin!” suddenly ejaculated Mr. Damon. It was what he started to say when the serpent had squeezed the breath out of him, and, on regaining consciousness from his momentary faint, his brain carried out the suggestion it had originally received.

  “How are you?” cried Tom, nearly dropping Mr. Damon’s legs in his excitement, for he had hold of his feet, while Ned was at the head.

  “Are you all right?” gasped Ned.

  “Yes—I—I guess so. I—I feel as though I had been put through a clothes wringer though. What happened?”

  “A big snake dropped down out of a tree and grabbed you,” answered Tom.

  “And then what? Put me down, boys, I guess I can walk.”

  “We shot it,” said Ned modestly.

  “Bless my insurance policy!” exclaimed the odd gentleman. “I—I hardly know what to say. I’ll say it later. You saved my life. Let me see if any bones are broken.”

  None was, fortunately, and after staggering about a bit Mr. Damon found that he could limp along. But he was very sore and bruised, for, though the snake had squeezed him but for part of a minute, that was long enough. A few seconds more and nearly every bone in his body would have been crushed, for that is the manner in which a constrictor snake kills its prey before devouring it.

  “Santa Maria! The dear gentleman is not dead then?” cried San Pedro, as the three approached the tents.

  “Bless my name plate, no!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.

  “Praise to all the saints! The brave young senors with their wonderful guns saved him. Now you must rest and sleep.”

  “I feel as if that was all I wanted to do for a month,” commented Mr. Damon. His soreness and stiffness increased each minute, and he was glad to get to bed, while the boys and Eradicate rubbed his limbs with liniment. San Pedro knew of a leaf that grew in the jungle which, when bruised, and made into poultices, had the property of drawing out soreness. The next day he found some, and Mr. Damon was wrapped up in bandages until he declared that he looked like an Egyptian mummy.

  But the leaf poultices did him good, and in a few days he was able to be about, though he was still a trifle stiff. Of course the cavalcade had to halt in the woods, but they did not mind this as they had traveled well up to this time, and the enforced rest was appreciated.

  “Well, do you feel able to move along?” asked Tom of Mr. Damon one morning, about a week later, for they were still in the “snake camp,” as they called it in memory of the big serpent.

  “Oh, yes, I think so, Tom. Where are you going?”

  “I want to push on to the next village. There I hope to get some line on giant land, and really I ought to begin making inquiries soon. San Pedro and the others are wondering what our object is, for we haven’t collected any specimens of either flowers or animals, or the snake skin, and he thinks we are a sort of scientific expedition.”

  “Well, let’s travel then. I�
��m able.”

  So they started off once more along the jungle and forest trail. As San Pedro had predicted, they came upon evidences of a native village. Scattered huts, made of plastered mud and grass, with thatched roofs of palm leaves, were met with, as they advanced, but none of the places seemed to be inhabited, though rude gardens around them showed that they had been the homes of natives up to recently.

  “No one seems to be at home,” remarked Tom, when they had gone past perhaps half a dozen of these lonely huts.

  “I wonder what can be the matter?” asked Ned. “It looks as if they had gone off in a hurry, too. Maybe there’s been some sort of epidemic.”

  “No, no sickness,” said San Pedro. “Natives no sick.”

  “Bless my liver pill!” cried Mr. Damon, who was almost himself again. “Then what is it?”

  “Much fight, maybe.”

  “Much fight?” repeated Tom.

  “Yes, tribes at war. Maybe natives go away so as not be killed.”

  “By Jove!” exclaimed the young inventor. “That’s so. I forgot about what Mr. Preston said. There’s a native war going on around here. Well, when we get to the town we can find out more about it, and steer clear of the two armies, if we have to.”

  But as they went farther on, the evidences of a native war became more pronounced. They passed several huts that had been burned, and the native mule drivers began showing signs of fear.

  “I don’t like this,” murmured Tom to his chum. “It looks bad.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Nothing, I guess. We’ve got to keep on. No use turning back now. Maybe the two rival forces have annihilated each other, and there aren’t any fighters left.”

  At that moment there arose a cry from some of the natives who, with the mules and their burdens, had pressed on ahead.

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Tom.

  “Something’s happened!” gasped Ned.

  “Bless my cartridge box!” cried Mr. Damon.

  The three went forward and came to a little hill. They looked down into a valley—a valley that had sheltered a native village, but the village was no more. It was but a heap of blackened and fire-scarred ruins, and there were still clouds of smoke arising from the grass huts, showing that the enemy had but recently made their assault on the place.

  “Bless my heart!” cried Mr. Damon. “The whole place has been wiped out.”

  “Not one hut left,” added Ned.

  “Hark!” cried Tom.

  An instant later there arose, off in the woods, a chorus of wild yells. It was followed by the weird sound of tom-toms and the gourd and skin drums of the natives. The shouting noise increased, and the sound of the war drums also.

  “Look!” cried Mr. Damon, pointing to a distant hill, and there the boys saw two large bodies of natives rushing toward one another, brandishing spears, clubs and the deadly blow guns.

  They were not more than half a mile away, and in plain view of Tom and his party, though the two forces had not yet seen our friends.

  “They’re going to fight!” cried Tom.

  And the next moment the two bodies of natives came together in a mass, the enemies hurling themselves at each other with the eagerness and ferocity of wild beasts. It was a deadly battle.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE DESERTION

  “Say, look at those fellows pitch into one another!” gasped Ned.

  “It’s fighting at close range all right,” commented Mr. Damon.

  “If they had rifles they wouldn’t be at it hand to hand,” spoke Tom. “Maybe it’s just as well they haven’t, for there won’t be so many killed. But say, we’d better be thinking of ourselves. They may make up their quarrel and turn against us any minute.”

  “No—never—no danger of them being friends—they are rival tribes,” said San Pedro. “But either one may attack us—the one that is the victor. It is better that we keep away.”

  “I guess you’re right,” agreed Tom. “Lead the way, San Pedro, and we’ll get out of sight.”

  But there was a fascination in watching the distant battle that was hard to resist. It was like looking at a moving picture, for at that distance none of the horrors of war were visible. True, natives went down by scores, and it was not to be doubted but what they were killed or injured, but it seemed more like a big football scrimmage than a fight.

  “This is great!” cried Tom. “I like to watch it, but I’m sorry for the poor chaps that get hurt or killed. I hope they’re only stunned as we stunned the wild horses.”

  “I’m afraid it is more serious than that,” spoke San Pedro. “These natives are very bloodthirsty. It would not be well for us to incur their anger.”

  “We won’t run any chances,” decided Tom. “We’ll just travel on. Come on, Ned—Mr. Damon.”

  As he spoke there was a sudden victorious shout from the scene of the battle. One body of natives was seen to turn and flee, while the others pursued them.

  “Now’s our time to make tracks!” called Tom. “We’ll have to push on to the next village before we can ask where the gi—” he caught himself just in time, for San Pedro was looking curiously at him.

  “The senor wishes to find something?” asked the head mule driver with an insinuating smile.

  “Yes,” broke in Eradicate. “We all is lookin’ fo’ some monstrous giant orchards flowers.”

  “Ah, yes, orchids,” spoke San Pedro. “Well, there may be some in the jungle ahead of us, but the senors have come the wrong trail for flowers,” and he looked curiously at Tom, while, from afar, come the sound of the native battle though the combatants could no longer be seen.

  “Never mind,” said our hero quickly. “I guess I’ll find what I want. Now come on.”

  They started off, skirting the burned village to get on the trail beyond it. But hardly had they made a detour of the burned huts than one of the native drivers, who was in the rear, came riding up with a shout.

  “Now what’s the matter?” cried Tom, looking back.

  There was a voluble chattering in Spanish between the driver and San Pedro.

  “He says the natives that lived in this village have driven their enemies away, and are coming back—after us,” translated the head mule driver.

  “After us!” gasped Ned.

  “Yes,” replied San Pedro simply. “They are coming even now. They will fight too, for all their wild nature is aroused.”

  It needed but a moment’s listening to prove this. From the rear came wild yells and the beating of drums and tom-toms.

  “Bless my fountain pen!” cried Mr. Damon. “What are we going to do?”

  “Stop them if we can,” answered Tom coolly. “Ned, you and I and Mr. Damon will form a rear guard. San Pedro, take the mules and the men, and make as good time as you can in advance. We’ll take three of the fastest mules, and hold these fellows back with the electric rifles, and when we’ve done that we’ll ride on and catch up to you.”

  “Very good,” said San Pedro, who seemed relieved to know that he did not have to do any of the fighting.

  Three of the lighter weight mules, who carried small burdens, were quickly relieved of them, and mounting these steeds in preference to the ones they had been riding since they took the trail, Tom, Ned and Mr. Damon dropped back to try and hold off the enemy.

  They had not far to ride nor long to wait. They could hear the fierce yells of the victorious tribesmen as they came back to their ruined village, and though there were doubtless sad hearts among them, they rejoiced that they had defeated their enemies. They knew they could soon rebuild the simple grass huts.

  “Small charges, just to stun them!” ordered Tom, and the electric rifles were so adjusted.

  “Here’s a good place to meet them,” suggested Ned, as they came to a narrow turn in the trail. “They can’t come against us but a few at a time, and we can pump them full of electricity from here.”

  “The very thing!” cried Tom, as he dismounted, an example
followed by the others. Then, in another moment, they saw the blacks rushing toward them. They were clad in nondescript garments, evidently of their own make, and they carried clubs, spears, bows and arrows and blow guns. There was not a firearm among them, as they passed on after the party of our friends whom they had seen from the battlehill. They gave wild yells as they saw the young inventor’s friends.

  “Let ’em have it!” called Tom in a low voice, and the electric rifles sent out their stunning charges. Several natives in the front rank dropped, and there was a cry of fear and wonder from the others. Then, after a moment’s hesitation they pressed on again.

  “Once more!” cried Tom.

  Again the electric rifles spoke, and half a score went down unconscious, but not seriously hurt. In a few hours they would be as well as ever, such was the merciful charge that Tom Swift and the others used in the rifles.

  The third time they fired, and this was too much for the natives. They could not battle against an unseen and silent enemy who mowed them down like a field of grain. With wild yells they fled back along the trail they had come.

  “I guess that does it!” cried Tom. “We’d better join the others now.”

  Mounting their mules, they galloped back to where San Pedro and his natives were pressing forward.

  “Did you have the honor of defeating them,” the head mule driver asked.

  “I had the honor,” answered Tom, with a grim smile.

  Then they pressed on, but there was no more danger. That night they camped in a peaceful valley and were not disturbed, and the following day they put a good many miles behind them. On the advice of San Pedro, they avoided the next two villages as they realized that they were in the war zone, and then they headed for a large town where Tom was sure he would hear some news of the giants.

  They had to camp twice at night before reaching this town, and when they did get to it they were warmly welcomed, for white explorers had been there years before, and had treated the natives well. Tom distributed many trinkets among the head men and won their good will so that the party was given comfortable huts in which to sleep, and a plentiful supply of provisions.