“Diaz,” was his mental comment. “But the others?”
A tall, thin man, wearing a khaki suit and a helmet, stood out before the others. Unquestionably he was a white man.
“But the others are Caribs.” A thrill shot up the boy’s spine. The distance was great. At that distance it was difficult to tell, and yet—
His field glass was now riveted upon the white man in the khaki suit. He was evidently speaking to a leader of the other group.
“It can’t be!” The boy’s throat tightened. “And yet—and yet—” The white man threw up his arms in a gesture of impatience. There was no mistaking that gesture.
“Grandfather, the old Colonel!” The cry stuck in the boy’s throat. What was he saying? The distance was too great to hear.
As the boy stood there silent, watching, his knees trembled and his head whirled. The thing that had happened was evident. Having grown impatient waiting for Pant’s return, the old Colonel had gotten together a band of Carib chicleros and had gone into the jungle to gather from the narrow stretch of land which he knew to be his. He had happened to stop near the crafty Spaniard’s illegal camp. The two bands had met.
“And now,” the boy told himself with a shudder, “there will be a fight.”
A fight? What did that mean? Certainly terrible bloodshed. Between this half-caste band and the Caribs there had always been waged a sort of gorilla warfare. Now here they were face to face, a hundred men on either side. Armed with axes, machetes and revolvers, they would do terrible execution. It would be a battle to the death.
“I must get down there. I have the picture of the map,” the boy told himself. “That may help. I must be beside the old colonel.”