The hornbill made a swoop at Jack, aiming with that cruel beak straight for his eyes. The boy put up an arm to defend himself, but the bird seized it with its parrot-like claws, scratching it badly, and all the while it kept up a beating of its wings that blinded the boy. Then the bird suddenly changed its tactics. It swooped off and then made a swift dash at the boy’s head. It was well for Jack that he had on his stiff sun helmet or his skull would have been cracked like an egg by that huge, horny bill. As it was, the helmet was ripped open.
Those below called on him to come down. But the attacks of the great bird so blinded and bewildered him that he was unable to move a step. Billy, at the order of Captain Sparhawk, brought a rifle from the camp, but so close did the bird stay to the boy that there was danger in using it. Even the most expert of shots would have been quite as likely to hit Jack as the enraged hornbill.
Salloo had sprung into the tree, and with his ever ready kriss was ascending to the rescue when Captain Sparhawk saw an opportunity. The rifle was already at his shoulder and, as the hornbill rose and hovered for an instant before making another plunge at Jack’s head, his finger pressed the trigger. A splendid shot, a broken wing, the huge bird fluttered to the earth and flopped and screamed on the ground till its strugglings were put an end to by another bullet. Jack remained where he was for a few seconds to recover his nerves and then, still somewhat shaken by his experience, he descended.
His arm was badly scratched and Captain Sparhawk was opening the medicine chest when Salloo intervened. He quickly gathered a handful of a plant that exuded a sort of thick milk. Crushing the gathered stems on a stone, he soon had a quantity of this juice, which he spread on the wounds. The irritation at once left them and Salloo promised a speedy cure. But it may be said that Jack had no appetite for roast hornbill that night.
CHAPTER XXXV.—THE HEART OF NEW GUINEA.
The expedition now found itself advancing through forest that grew sparser as they progressed. The ground was rapidly becoming more rugged. Close to them now towered the range known as the Kini-Balu among the wild recesses of which the tribe of that name made its home. Constant vigilance was the watchword of the hour now. Salloo would permit no fires to be lighted, and he and his followers were constantly scouting in front of the party, while additional watch was kept at the rear and on both flanks.
It was dangerous, thrilling work, but the boys, who loved adventure, relished every moment of it. But Donald Judson lived a life of misery. Every rustle in the bush made him turn pale. He was constantly giving false alarms in the night and the boys heartily wished he had been left behind. One afternoon—they were right in the mountains now—Salloo halted the party with a quick gesture.
“Two men ahead of us. Up the mountain. Salloo go, look, see.”
He glided off with his usual snake-like agility and vanished in a flash, while the party waited behind a mighty rock, for cover of the forest kind was growing scarce now. A wilder region would have been hard to imagine. The cliffs and mountains were of all sorts of extravagant shapes. Some of the larger rocks and peaks took on the outlines of monstrous animals. But they were still following a trail which was undoubtedly the one set down in red ink on Broom’s map.