“O,” he said, half aloud, “that dream will assuredly come true. I shall find and free poor Bernard if he be in the land of Ecuador.”
The very words suggested action, and he sprang to his feet. In five minutes more the expedition was once again on the move.
Were I to relate all Tom’s adventures during his memorable march into the land of the Ecuador Indians, what a very large book I could make! And what a very large price my readers would have to pay for it! It may not be; I must hurry on with my narrative, my main object being to give but the principle lines in the picture of the life a wanderer must lead in this wild country. One way or another Tom and his party spent nearly five months on the journey. It was a long time, but it passed away most pleasantly and quickly; and Tom could say what few travellers in Ecuador ever could—that he had the utmost faith in his servants, from Samaro, his major-domo, down to Rooph, the Indian boy, who did little else except shoot strange birds with his blow-gun, and whom no threats or punishment either could induce to carry a package of any sort. Tom’s servants all liked him too, and he felt confident they would fight for him if ever there should be any necessity. Well, the life these Indians now led under their white chief was a very enjoyable one, and as they were engaged to bring Tom back to Riobamba, they would each have a modest sum at their banker’s when they got there—if ever they did.
There were times when it really did not seem at all likely any one of the party should ever come up out of the wilderness again.
Once, for example, they were encamped by the banks of a beautiful river and close to the edge of the forest. It was a charming situation, and they had lain here for over a week. On this particular night Tom thought as he took his last look at the sky he had never noticed the stars shining more brightly nor looking more near. There were the usual sounds in the forest and all about, but otherwise the deep solitude was unbroken; for not a breath of wind was there to move the long grass that grew near the tent. It was unusually sultry and hot too. But for the creepies Tom would have laid himself down as the men were lying, on a bed of palm leaves, and slept sound till morning. He envied the poor fellows their sweet repose. The creepies did not appear to trouble them. Musquitoes might sing and buzz about their heads, drink their blood and go, but the men slept on. Centipeds—and in the forest the green-backed ones are quite as dangerous as snakes—might crawl over their hands, and cockroaches in scores pass over their faces, but they would not heed even if they felt them. Serpents even might take a short cut over their bodies without awaking them, while the mournful cries of the night-birds in the adjoining forest but lulled them to dreamless slumber. It was very different with Tom though; he dared no more sleep in the open than in a tiger’s den.
“Señor, señor, awake!” It was Samaro’s voice, and he was swinging Tom’s hammock to arouse him.
“What is it, Samaro?” cried Tom, raising himself on his elbow.
“We must strike camp at once, señor, or we will be swept away by the flood. Listen!”
There was little need to listen. That peal of thunder would have awakened Rip Van Winkle himself.
“Are the men astir?”