Call of the Caribbean/Chapter 8

EFORE sunset we had covered a considerable distance, without, however, freeing ourselves from the tangle of forest. Mary kept up with us easily, slipping through the thickets where Stuart and I had to beat our way clear.

We saw the source of the Jordan below us, a small lake into which several freshwater streams emptied. The country was truly a paradise, luxuriant in growth and color. We were walking through one of the natural gardens of the earth, accompanied by the girl who seemed the embodied spirit of the beautiful place.

Halfway up a steep mountain slope we halted, Jack going on to get a view of our surroundings, he said, from the summit. It was beside one of the streams that ran to the lake and I was thirsty. I placed my rifle against a bamboo and kneeled, plunging head and arms into the delightful pool. Ten years of the South Sea Islands should have taught me better. But then every one forgets, once in a while.

I sat by the stream, allowing the sun to dry the moisture on my head and musing on the splendid handiwork of the Lord which fringed me in. It might have been several moments before I swung around, at a cry from the girl.

Mary was, perhaps, a hundred yards away. And she was struggling with Johnny Gorai. The wrinkled face of the islander was alight with evil. He had caught the girl’s hair, and as I watched, he struck her on the shoulder.

She twisted strongly in his grasp, beating at his face. But the blow sent her to the ground. Johnny Gorai straightened at my startled shout, and leered.

I ran toward the two, wondering at the change which had come over the native. He was kneeling on the girl, and as I came nearly within arm’s reach he picked up my rifle from the ground where he had placed it after taking it from the tree.

“You catch ’em bullet, you white fellow man,” he chattered, taking hasty aim. His voice was thick, and 1 noticed that his eyes were inflamed. Even as he pointed the weapon at me, he swayed unsteadily.

Not until then did I recall that Captain McShea’s gift of wine which we had not touched had been in the pack we gave the scoundrel. Yes, in those days, it was bad to make one mistake, such as letting your rifle out of your grasp. But I had made two simultaneously. Johnny Gorai was drunk, and therefore more dangerous than usual. And he had my gun, which, unfortunately, he knew how to work.

I was about to chance a rush, hoping that the beggar would score a miss with the rifle. I had a vague vision of Jack Stuart returning, if my rush failed of success, and receiving a bullet in his back, and of Mary at the mercy of our worthy pilot. Then I stopped in my tracks.

Johhny Gorai let my rifle fall from his hands. He swayed forward, fingers clutching his lean throat. Under his chin I saw the feathered end of an arrow projecting.

An expression of dismay crossed his evil face. Then his eyes opened staringly and he dropped full length to the ground. Mary sprung to her feet and ran swiftly into the bush.

After what had happened, I hardly blamed her for not wanting to stay. Still, I was sorry she had left me. My back tingled suggestively as I picked up the rifle and cleaned the dirt from the muzzle. The arrow had been sped silently and with great skill. From its position in the throat of its victim I guessed that the shaft had come from a tree.

Johnny Gorai was, of course, dying. I wasted no further attention on him. There was nothing visible in the trees around the spot. But I knew that the person who had sent our pilot to his last account would have no trouble doing the same to me. My rifle was useless against a hidden foe.

I sat down as quietly as I could and tried to keep my breathing at normal while I waited to see if the executioner had marked me for a second victim. Apparently he had not. I think Mary was to thank for that. Probably she saved my life and Stuart’s as well, for the “small fellow boys” who watched over her were angered at the attack on the girl, and judging by the fate of her suitors from the coast, cared little for human life.

When Jack came back, without obtaining any further information as to where we were in the mountains, I told him what had happened. We gave Johnny Gorai a burial of sorts and had dinner. Neither of us ate much. I have seen many men, white and black, go to their last account. But I never had to bury an islander before.

“Mary’s friends,” I told him, “are apparently not going to kill us now. But I do not think they have any love for us. With Johnny Gorai lost, we have as much chance of talking to Mary and getting information from her, as a wild pig of reading the Gospel. We haven’t come across a sign of the Quiros settlement. I think you’ll admit all this is true. And you’ll start back to the coast with me to-morrow.”

The boy was silent at that, looking up moodily to where the stars were appearing in the evening sky.

“Do you think she’ll come back?” he said.

“It won’t help matters if she does,” I answered sharply. “And I’d be pretty careful about going near her, or putting my hand on her—if I were you. I don’t want to bury you.”

He sat up quickly and glared at me.

“Confound it, Haskins! I’m a gentleman.”

“I know,” I said, for my temper was none of the best just then. “But the beggars who act as bodyguard for our young lady are not apt to understand the difference.”

“They are more likely to than you are,” he growled.

We said nothing more, which was bad. The next morning was hotter, and our tempers did not improve thereby. That is often the way when two white men are isolated for a long time. I gave up trying to get the boy back to the river and the dugouts. And he treated me as if I were no better than Johnny Gorai.

It was becoming more and more clear to me that the boy was not as interested in the Quiros city as he pretended to be. Our daily marches became shorter. He walked with Mary, who rejoined us in excellent spirits the next day. I followed in the rear.

The boy was trying to make Mary understand him. For hours they would converse in the sign language, which is the same the world over. The girl was quick to perceive his meaning, and Stuart really made great progress. It got so they could communicate after a fashion.

“She has something to show me,” he said once.

Not a word about Don Quiros or the new Jerusalem. I said nothing, and I think my silence troubled him. It was the second day after Johnny Gorai’s death that the rain came. We sought for shelter and found a cave of sorts. We had little food.

Mary left us at the first downpour. But that night she returned, bringing with her the strange gift she had asked Jack Stuart to see.