The Radio Detectives in the Jungle

by A. Hyatt Verrill

The horrified man gave a single glance at the lifeless, bleeding form and then, utterly bereft of his senses, crazed with terror of the unseen, mysterious assassin, he turned and dashed blindly, madly, from the spot.

Unheeding, unreasoning, he raced among the trees, stumbling over rocks, tripping on upjutting roots, ripping his clothes as he tore through thorny vines and palms, barking his shins, crashing into trees in his headlong flight, until utterly exhausted, he sank limply to the earth.

How long he lay there he did not know. Possibly he lost consciousness, possibly his half-crazed mind was incapable of judging time; but when at last he raised himself and glanced about, the sun was low in the west and new terrors filled him as he realized that he must remain in the jungle throughout the night. But his first nameless, unreasoning, mad fright had passed and while he was still weak and trembling, his mind was clear and he knew that if he ever was to escape from this dread forest he must have shelter and a fire. Near him a huge mora tree spread twenty-feet, slablike, buttressed roots and between two of these he would be somewhat protected. Gathering a quantity of dead branches and twigs, he piled them near the tree and after a few futile attempts had a roaring fire going. He was desperately hungry, but food was out of the question, and seated between the mora roots in the grateful warmth of the blaze, he steeled himself to withstand the gnawing pangs of his famished stomach.

Presently there was a scratching sound above him, a bit of bark dropped upon his head and glancing quickly up he saw a squirrel clinging to the trunk of the tree and gazing wonderingly at the intruder. Quickly raising his pistol and taking careful aim, the man fired and at the echoing report, the little creature dropped lifeless at his feet. Quickly he skinned and cleaned the animal and ere the flesh was cold had spitted it on a pointed stick and was broiling it over the fire. It was a pitifully small morsel for a hungry, tired man, but it was far better than nothing and ravenously he devoured the half-cooked, blackened flesh. And as he did so the thin lips smiled and a look of satisfaction spread across his features. If he could kill one squirrel he could kill more--or perhaps larger game. He had learned a lesson of the bush; he had discovered that by sitting motionless the wild things could be found more readily than by moving about. He vowed that he would yet win out, that he would escape and would reach civilization despite fate and his enemies.

With his hunger somewhat appeased he leaned back against the mora roots and mentally determining that he would not again give way to craven fear, he strove to dismiss the thoughts of the spear-pierced body of his dead companion.

But he could not forget it, could not drive it from his mind, and despite every effort he found himself dwelling on the subject, wondering how and by whom the red-bearded giant had been killed. That it was the work of Indians he knew--the spear thrust through the body proved that--and he felt that the redskins who had done the deed had also taken the boat. Perhaps, he thought, that was it, possibly the Indians had followed them to recover their craft and surprising the white man asleep had murdered him. But if so, why was he not lying dead beneath the tree where he had been sleeping? How did his body happen to be some distance away in the thicket? It was a puzzle, a mystery. The fact that “red-beard” was dead did not trouble him, or at least it would not have troubled him had he possessed the canoe. Rather it would have been welcome, for it would have meant more food for himself. He had seen and dealt out swift and sudden death too often to feel the ordinary man’s horror of murder or a dead body, but for some unaccountable reason this was different. There was something strange, something mysterious about it and then there were the nervous, groundless fears he had endured while they had been upon the creek.

This brought to mind the awful screams he had heard and he shivered as he thought of them, but there were no unusual sounds in the forest now, all seemed peaceful and at last he dropped into a deep sleep.

With morning came hunger and bearing in mind the squirrel of the previous evening, he peered about, searching for some other creature to kill. At last, with a gleam of almost savage satisfaction, he saw a plump, long-legged black and gray bird stepping daintily among the trees and with another lucky shot secured it. He now felt sure that he would not starve and having cleaned, picked and broiled the trumpet bird, he rose, stretched himself, adjusted his monocle, which by some miracle had escaped destruction in his mad flight, and glanced about.

Then, for the first time, he realized that he did not know in which direction the river lay. With the discovery he cursed vociferously in his native German and then burst into a mirthless laugh. After all, it made little difference. He was gambling on chance, on the faint hope of finding an Indian village, and, as far as he could tell, one direction was as promising as another and so, scanning the earth in the hope that he might find a trail, he walked from his temporary resting place through the forest.

A few hours later he came upon a small brook or creek and, knowing that if he followed this he must eventually come out somewhere, and finding the bed of the stream an easier road than the jungle floor with the cool water comforting to his blistered, aching feet, he splashed along ankle deep in the stream.