But his orders were unheeded, the Indians were panic stricken. The next second Sam had leaped forward and with his huge black hands was cuffing the cowering Indians right and left. Wrenching the paddles from their grasps he heaved them onto the beach. Almost before the others realized what had happened, the Bahaman sprang onto the rocks, the boat’s painter in one hand and his paddle in the other.
“Ah guess he won’ humbug yo’ no more,” he announced grinning. “Yo’ go ’long, Chief. Ah’ll ten’ to these boys!”
“I’ll say you will!” cried Rawlins and realizing that Sam was perfectly capable of “tending” to the Indians and the boat, he dashed up the bank followed by the others.
As the diver reached the first trees, the jaguar’s cry again came from the jungle, but faint and far away, and the next moment Rawlins uttered a shout.
“Here he is!” he yelled as with drawn revolver he leaped towards a smouldering fire. “But by glory, I guess the jaguar’s beat us to it!”
Huddled near the fire was a ragged, human form. As the diver and the others bent over the body, they knew that their search was over, for instantly all recognized it as that of the master criminal they sought. Dangling from its string was a cracked monocle; a German automatic pistol was lying by the outstretched hand, and blood was oozing from a great gash across the back of the man’s head.
“It’s he!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “But Rawlins is right--that jaguar finished him.”
Mr. Pauling had torn open the fellow’s tattered garments and was listening at his chest. “He’s not dead!” he announced. “Just knocked out. Hurry up, get the first aid kit and fix up his wound. He may live to answer for his crimes yet.”
Mr. Thorne had been examining the ground about the unconscious man and as Tom and Frank rushed back to the boat for the first aid kit, he stooped and examined the bloody wound on the man’s head.
“You’re dead wrong about one thing,” he announced in grave tones. “No jaguar made that gash--and there’s not a sign of a jaguar about.”