“Boy! Oh boy! Are we in a pickle!” Stew exclaimed. “If some old boar comes down this stream looking for trouble he’ll force us into a fight. If we shoot and miss, he’ll tear us up.”
“Tell you what!” Jack decided after a moment’s thought. “We’ll keep going as long as we can. Then we’ll work our way back up the bank into the bush and let that drove of porkers pass.”
“As long as we can” was only another ten yards, for suddenly the old guardian of the drove caught their scent and came charging down upon them.
By a mighty struggle they forced their way back into the brush just before the ugly beast with chop-chopping jaws and gleaming tusks came charging past.
The lesser fry, about a half dozen of them, had just stampeded past, when the old boar turned and came charging back upstream. This time he made no mistake. His beady eyes were upon Stew.
As he lowered his ugly head preparing for a charge, Stew drew his automatic, but Jack, swinging a knife that was a cross between a sheath knife and a machete, struck the angry beast a cutting blow across his ugly snout.
With a loud squeal and an angry grunt, the mad creature came on. Jack let him have it again, neatly carving out a curled ivory tusk.
Before he could swing again the pig reared, gnashed its teeth, then tumbled back into the stream, to go rushing away.
“Boy! But that was close!” Stew exclaimed, when after a short wait they resumed their journey upstream.
At the top of the brush canopy, to their surprise they came upon a tiny lake. All rimmed round with gray rocks, it was blue as the sky above, and in its clear water many tropical fish were moving.