The Land of Mystery by Edward Sylvester Ellis (reading rainbow books .TXT) 📕

It seemed to be the only course left. Whether it was or not, it was too late to try anything else. That the natives had discovered the explorers was proven by several low, tremulous whistles which at that instant sounded on the night.

It was risky running along the dark trail, even though illuminated here and there by the rays of the moon: but, feeling that the situation was desperate, Ashman broke into a swift lope, with Johnston at his heels, urging him to make haste.

"If they come too close," thought the young man, "we can dodge among the trees again and pick our way back to the river as best we can—helloa! what's that?"

Well might he ask himself the question, for the whizz of something close to his ear left no doubt that one of their pursuers had hurled a poisoned javelin at them.

An instant after he heard a faint but peculiar noise which he could not describe nor identify. Johnston at the same instant uttered a suppressed exclamation, not intended for his ears, and he called out in a recklessly loud voice,

"Into the woods, quick!"

Ashman did not hesitate, but darted to his right, halting after a couple of steps, through fear of betraying himself.

"Where are you?" asked Johnston, speaking more guardedly.

His groping hand touched Ashman, who seized it and silently drew him forward, neither speaking again.

Even in that trying moment, the younger was impressed by the singularity of his friend's actions, though there was no opportunity to ask an explanation.

The savages could be plainly heard, as they hurried past, evidently believing they would overtake the fugitives the next minute and certain of locating them, wherever they might be.

Sure enough, they had not gone fifty feet, when they detected the trick and turned about to catch the whites before they could steal any distance from the trail.

"We must leave," said Ashman; "we are too close to the path, and they are sure to find us."

Johnston made no answer, and, instead of following him, sank heavily to the ground, with a groan.

"Great heaven! what is the matter, Aaron?" gasped his friend.

"I'm done for," was the feeble reply; "never mind me: look—out—for—for—good-bye!"

Struck almost dumb by an awful fear, Fred forgot the natives for the time and stooped over his friend. It was as he suspected; the poor fellow had been struck full in the back by one of the poisoned javelins. The exclamation which he uttered at the moment of receiving the wound was that which puzzled Ashman. The sailor had withdrawn the weapon, and the wound bled but little. The young man, however, identified it on the instant.

"Aaron, rouse up!" he called, shaking his shoulder; "fight off your drowsiness!"

He suddenly ceased, for at that moment, he realized that his companion was dead. Thus fearfully did the virus do its work.

Before Ashman, could do more than rally from his shock, a muttered exclamation at his elbow announced that the savages had located him.

"Curse you!" he exclaimed, whipping out his revolver and letting fly in the dark at the point where he knew several of his foes were standing, waiting for a chance to hurl their missiles at him.

A screech announced that the bullet had found its mark, and he followed it with a couple more shots, which inflicted wounds, even if they caused no mortal ones.

The effect of this volley was to throw the natives into consternation and panic. There is nothing go appalling as an unknown peril, and the flashes of fire lighting up the gloom sent them flying toward their village.

The path was open for the young man's escape, but could he leave the body of his friend behind?

Alas! it was that all he could do, and unless that were done within the next few minutes, it would be too late.

Stooping over, he grasped the shoulders of the body and drew it further from the path, in the hope that it would remain unnoticed. Then he loosed the Winchester from the death grip, removed the revolver, and stepping back into the trail, started on his sorrowful return to his friends.

"I wish they would follow me," he muttered; glaring into the gloom behind him; "the man they have killed is worth more than the whole tribe of miscreants."

He was in a savage mood, and, despite the fearful danger from the poisoned arrows and spears, he yearned for another chance at the wretches who fought so unfairly.

He held a couple of loaded and repeating Winchesters, with which he could pour the most destructive of volleys among the savages, and he longed for the opportunity; but the profound silence which followed the fierce encounter was so striking that to Fred it all seemed like some horrid vision of sleep.

But he dare not wait. These wretches had come from the direction of the Xingu, and he was apprehensive of