The hand of Johnny Thompson, that manly right hand that had scorned to strike one weaker than its owner; the hand that had so often inspired the dishonest, the unkind, mean and criminal to a wholesome fear; the hand that had never been employed in mere selfish ends, was powerless and still.
The stream rushing past that cabin seemed a funeral train, powerful and free, ready to carry that brave spirit away. Some strange bird sang a song from the tree tops. Its notes, measured and slow, were like a dirge.
A great snake, attracted by the dry warmth of the doorway, curled up there in the dust to sleep. The figure on the cot did not move. A great lizard crept in through a rotted corner to gaze blinking at him. The snake, sensing a dinner, slowly uncoiled, then with a motion surprisingly quick for a creature of its kind, darted, forked tongue flashing, at the lizard. There was a scurry of feet, a gliding scrape. Lizard and snake passed within a few inches of that prostrate head. The snake passed over the motionless hand, yet the hand did not stir, the eyes did not open.
The rush of waters, the distant mournful notes of birds, the sigh of the wind through the palms seemed to say:
“He is dead! Dead! Dead!”
* * * * * * * *
Pant would not believe that Johnny was dead. “They can’t have done him in,” he said to Hardgrave. “It’s a thing that really can’t be done. Burly Russians; treacherous, slant-eyed Yellow men have tried it; yes, and daring white crooks, too. These didn’t get Johnny, so why should a mere Spanish half-caste succeed?”
No, he would not admit that Johnny was dead; but as days passed and he did not return he grew more and more restless. Each morning strengthened his determination to discover what had happened to his good pal. Each evening found him with some more daring plan for discovering his whereabouts. When sending his men as spies among Daego’s men at night failed, he took to paddling across the river and drifting in and out among them in the dark himself. This was exceedingly dangerous business. He might be discovered, and if he were he would doubtless go the way of his pal, whatever way that might be. He was careless of danger; any risk was not too great, could he but find Johnny.
It was during one of his secret visits to the enemy’s camp that an exceedingly strange thing happened.
It was a hot, sultry night. Daego’s men lay about on mats before the huts. The murmur of voices constantly hung upon the air. Now and again there came a shout of laughter from some black man. Half the workers were blacks from Belize. The others were Spaniards. These seldom laughed.