To-yah-hyah! To-yah-hyah!
Ko! Ko! Ko!”
The curator stopped, exulting. These were men!—not the little, dwarfed aborigines of the hills, but big, tall, deep-chested men—the Outanatas!
He scarce dared to hope. An arrow whispered through the jungle over his shoulder, but he heeded it not, his eyes fixed on that open green tunnel that opened out on the creek bank. The marching song continued, and he got glimpses of spears and white-scrolled shields moving along through the greens of the forest below. Then a tall chief stood in the mouth of the tunnel, his face hideously streaked with white marks, and, hanging like an apron from his girdle, was the curator’s flaming red bandanna. It was the war chief of the Outanatas—and behind him came Baderoon, pointing and urging them on vigorously!
The curator cupped his hands.
“Baderoon! Baderoon! Here we are!” he yelled. Then he and Sadok laid Dwight down under a rock ledge and sought ambushes. Yells and war cries sounded from the mountain side all about them as the long line of Outanata warriors splashed across the creek, brandishing their weapons. Parties of pygmies formed for the assault in the swales. The occasional cough of Sadok’s sumpitan at different places on the mountain showed that he was outlying and picking off men here and there.
Then a knot of the pygmies gathered below the curator, evidently bent on taking the Outanatas in the rear. He aimed carefully into the midst of them and fired his third shell. Its stunning report was the signal for a general attack, for the Outanatas dashed out into the grass country, a cloud of arrows preceding them, while javelins soared and poised in the air, to sink out of sight in the long grass.
Baderoon came running up the hill through the jungle.
“Me get’m! Me fetch’m, Orang-kaya! Come! No good for white man be here.” He was fully armed, and exuberant with delight and high spirits. The curator called in Sadok, and they raised Dwight to his feet and set off at full speed, with the Dyak covering their retreat. The boy was fast getting his strength back now, and they went along rapidly. As they left the plateau the curator looked back. The whole country behind him was full of tall and short black men, fighting like demons, catching arrows on ready shields, jabbing at each other with long spears, and occasionally the white flash of a bamboo knife would tell where one of a pair had come off victorious.
That was his last glimpse of Papuan and pygmy, for the way led down abruptly into their valley, and soon they were crossing the strip of deep jungle and had arrived on the coral bank. A shout for Nicky, answered by a low whistle, brought them to the stream bank, where the old white sail of the small proa showed up through the thickets. Nicky had already gotten the crate aboard and was all ready to shove off. They tumbled in, and Baderoon took the helm, while Sadok drew in the sheet rope. The creek banks slid swiftly by, and presently they were out in the lagoon and headed down it toward the capes of the open sea.