Chapter Twenty Four.
The Cave’s Mouth.
As soon as they were outside, Cyril looked round for the birds, expecting to see them swooping about in all directions, but there was nothing visible between him and the stars; and with the peculiar nervous feeling which he had felt in the cavern assailing him again, he turned to the colonel, who laughed.
“Well,” he said, “did you think it was something of what the Scotch call ‘no canny,’ my lad?”
Cyril felt more uncomfortable still.
“Do you think they really were birds?” he said.
“Of course; the South American cave-bird. A regular nocturnal creature.”
“What! a sort of owl, sir?”
“No. Perry here has seen their relatives at home.”
“I? No, father,” said the boy wonderingly.
“Nonsense. What about the nightjars you have seen hawking round the oak trees in Surrey, after sunset?”
“Oh yes, I remember them,” cried Perry.
“Well, these are, I fancy, birds of a similar kind, but instead of frequenting trees, they live in flocks in these dark caverns, and go out of a night to feed. Our light startled them just as they were about to take flight. This must be one of their great breeding-places.—But no more chatter. Sleep, and get a good night’s rest.”
Easier said than done. The boys lay down in company with John Manning, but it was long enough before either Cyril or Perry could drop off! They would close their eyes, but only by an effort, for they were always ready to start open again at some sound high up on one or the other side of the narrow winding valley. It was cold too, in spite of the blankets, and when Cyril did at last slumber, he felt that he could hardly have been asleep an hour, as he started up into wakefulness again.
Something was wrong he was sure, and he stretched out his hand to touch John Manning, who awoke instantly and sat up.
“All right,” he said, in a low voice.
“No, no, don’t move,” whispered Cyril, grasping his arm. “I fancied I heard something.”
“Eh? Fancied? Perhaps it was fancy, sir. I’ll ask the colonel.”
“Listen first.”
They knelt there in the darkness, attent for some minutes.
“Don’t hear anything, sir. I’ll go and speak to the colonel. What did you fancy?”
“I—I don’t know,” faltered Cyril. “It must have been while I was asleep. Yes,” he whispered excitedly, “that was it.”
“The mules!” said the old soldier. “What are they doing here in camp?”
For there came plainly now the soft pattering of hoofs on the stony ground, and directly after a tall figure loomed up out of the darkness.
“Want me, sir?” said John Manning, in a quick whisper.
“As you are awake, yes. There is something stirring close at hand, whether wild beast or Indian I can’t say. Keep watch, and cover us while I get the mules into that cave.”
John Manning’s double gun was already in his hand, and he stood fast while the colonel went by with the leading mule, the others following. Then directly after the soft pattering ceased, and the watchers knew that the patient animals had been led right into the cave.
“Hear anything, Master Cyril?” whispered John Manning.
“No.”
“And one can’t see down in this dark gash,” grumbled the man. “We humans are worse off than any of the animals. We can’t see so well, nor hear so well, nor smell so well, nor run, nor fly. Lucky for us, we’ve got gumption enough to make telescopes and steam-engines and ships, or I don’t know what we should do.”
“Who’s that?” said the colonel, returning. “Cyril?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go and stand at the mouth of the cave, and mind that the mules don’t come out.”
Cyril obeyed, and took up his position on a stone in the gurgling stream, to stand listening to the soft patter of the mules within, and to the faint whispers which came time after time from where he had left the colonel and John Manning.
He had been at his position for some few minutes, turning from time to time in the darkness to cast a furtive look back into the entrance of the cavern, hardly able to restrain a shudder, as he thought of its unknown depths and the strange sound they had heard of the stone falling, and he could not help wishing that Perry was with him for company’s sake.
For there was a terrible feeling of lonesomeness there in the darkness, especially at a time like that, when he had just been roused from an uneasy sleep by something unexplained at which the colonel had taken alarm.
“He said either Indian or wild beast,” mused the boy. “What wild beast could there be?” There were, he knew, the wild varieties of the llamas, guanacoes, and the like, but they were timid, sheep-like creatures; and there were, he knew, pumas, the South American lions, as they were called, and perhaps jaguars—both these latter cat-like, nocturnal creatures; but they were animals of the forests, and not of these sterile, rocky valleys. Still, there might be other dangerous beasts in plenty, and his eyes wandered here and there, and he held his gun ready, though in that deep gloom he felt that he would be quite at the mercy of anything which attacked.
He had just reached this point, when his thoughts took a fresh direction—suppose some savage creature should be in the cave, and suddenly spring upon him from behind.
He turned cold with horror, and tried to call for help, but his mouth and throat were dry from the nervous trepidation he suffered; for he had suddenly been touched just below the shoulders, something big having given him a rude thrust. This was followed by another, which nearly sent him down into the water from the stone.
But he recovered himself, turned sharply, and struck out with his right hand—a quick angry blow, while he felt as angry with himself for his absurd cowardice, the second thrust having awakened him to the fact that he had received a heavy push from the head of one of the mules, which had come silently close up, and was desirous of getting out again into the open air.
Cyril’s blow drove the animal hastily back, and as he stood listening, he heard the effect of his sharp action, for there was a good deal of pattering about when the mule turned sharply to its companions, driving them farther in. Then there was silence once more.
“How easy it is to let one’s self be frightened,” thought Cyril. “I wish I were braver, and more like a man.”
Then he wondered why the colonel and John Manning did not come to him, and whether they were searching about for the cause of alarm. All was very still now, and it was some time since he had heard a whisper.
“Very likely I shall hear a shot fired,” he thought, and making up his mind not to be startled if he did, for that it would be a good sign and a proof that the cause of their night alarm had either been killed or frightened away, he stood gazing out into the darkness in all directions, and then smiled and complimented himself on his firmness.
“Not going to be scared at that,” he muttered, for there had been a sudden clattering of hoofs among the stones inside the cavern—just such a sound as would be made if one of the mules had kicked out at its companions, and made them start.
All was silent again for a minute, and then there was a faint splash.
“One of them gone down to drink,” said Cyril to himself, and he turned now and looked inward along the narrow opening, and could see faintly one of the stars reflected in the black water, now twinkling, now burning brightly. Then it disappeared, as if a cloud had passed across the heavens, though that could not be, for another star gleamed closer to him, but that was blotted out too.
“One of the mules coming out,” he said, starting and raising his hand, when there was a sudden bound made by something which had been crawling slowly out of the cave’s mouth; and as the boy struck at it wildly, his fist touched something warm and soft, and the object, whatever it was, made a stone or two rattle where it alighted, and then was gone.
Cyril raised his gun, but he did not draw trigger, for it was folly to fire quite at random, and he was leaning forward, peering into the darkness, when a faint click made him turn again toward the mouth of the cave, just in time to be driven backward and lose his feet as another of the creatures leaped out and dashed away into the darkness.
Two, and they were not mules, though evidently four-footed creatures. But what could they be? he asked himself, as he recovered his feet and stood with presented piece, his heart throbbing, and his finger on the trigger, ready to fire at the next movement from the cave. They could not be pumas, for the touch he had of the first one’s body was not furry; neither could they be large monkeys, for they would not have smooth bodies, and besides, these creatures were too large.
He was still in doubt, when there was a sound behind him, and as he turned sharply, a husky whisper:
“Don’t fire, my lad. What was that?”
“Did you hear it, Manning?”
“Yes, and had a glint of some one running by me.”
“Some one?”
“Yes. Indian, I think; did you see him?”
Cyril told him of what he had seen, and was just finishing, when there was a faint whisper and a movement of a stone or two as some one hurried up.
“Manning—Cyril—”
“Yes, sir.”—“Yes, sir.”
“Look out. Some one passed me just now. Who’s this—Perry?”
“Yes, father,” came in excited tones from out of the darkness. “Was it you who fell over me?”
“No: when? where?”
“Just now. Then it must have been Cyril. He went down heavily, but jumped up and ran away.”
“Indians, sir,” said John Manning, in a low angry growl. “They passed the line of sentries, and must have been trying to spot the camp.”
“Absurd.”
“Fact, sir. Ask Mr Cyril here.”
“Yes, sir; two Indians—I thought they were wild beasts—came crawling out of the cave and jumped by me.”
“You saw them?”
“Oh no, sir: it was so dark; but I hit at one of them and felt him.”
“Came out of the cavern?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But are you sure?”
“Quite, sir; I heard them frighten the mules, which began trampling, and then one of the men sprang out.”
“Shall I light the lantern, sir, and go in and see if there’s any more?” growled John Manning.
“No, my man; in all probability there were only the two, and perhaps they were not enemies to be feared. Possibly we have scared them more than they scared us.”
Cyril mentally demurred to that, but said nothing, and the colonel went on:
“I’m afraid our night’s rest has gone,” he said, “for it is impossible to lie down with the knowledge that Indians who may be enemies are about.—Did you see anything as you made your round, John Manning?”
“No, sir; but I heard something twice. It may have been only an animal, but something moved a few little stones up to the left. When I went cautiously up, whatever it was had gone. Did you see or hear anything, sir?”
“I thought I heard a whisper a short distance away, but I could not be sure. I am sure, though, that some one glided by me, and Perry here had the best of evidence that one of the Indians fell over him.”
“Unless it was Cyril; he did lie down to sleep by me, father.”
“I’ve been on guard here by the cave’s mouth for ever so long,” said Cyril sharply, as if resenting the fact that his companion should have been sleeping while he watched.
“Then it was an Indian,” said the boy sharply.
“We have the mules safe, Manning,” said the colonel, “and now we must make sure of the baggage. Stand together, boys, facing two ways, while Manning and I get the packs into the cave.”
“But there may be more Indians in there, sir,” said Cyril.
“If there are, we must drive them out. That must be our fort for the present.”
At that moment there was a faint whistle from a distance, and it was answered from somewhere high up on the mountain-side.