Then, peeping out from behind the cypress, Ken watched the boat drift down-stream. Pepe had stopped poling and was looking closely into the thick grass and vines of the bank. Ken heard his voice, but could not tell what he said. He watched keenly for some sight of George. The moments passed, the boat drifted, and Ken began to think there was nothing unusual afoot. In this interval Pepe drifted within seventy-five yards of camp. Again Ken called to ask him what George was stalking, and this time Pepe yelled; but Ken did not know what he said. Hard upon this came George’s sharp voice:

  “Look out, there, on the island. Get behind something. I’ve got him between the river and the flat. He’s in this strip of shore brush. There!”

  Spang! Spang! Spang! Bullets hummed and whistled all about the island. Ken was afraid to peep out with even one eye. He began to fancy that George was playing Indian.

  “Fine, Georgie! You’re doing great!” he shouted. “You couldn’t come any closer to me if you were aiming at me. What is it?”

  Then a crashing of brush and a flash of yellow low down along the bank changed the aspect of the situation.

  “Panther! or jaguar!” Ken ejaculated, in amaze. In a second he was tight-muscled, cold, and clear-witted. At that instant he saw George’s white shirt about the top of the brush.

  “Go back! Get out in the open!” Ken ordered. “Do you hear me?”

  “Where is he?” shouted George, paying not the slightest attention to Ken. Ken jumped from behind the tree, and, running to the head of the island, he knelt low near the water with rifle ready.

  “Tigre! Tigre! Tigre!” screamed Pepe, waving his arms, then pointing.

  George crashed into the brush. Ken saw the leaves move, then a long yellow shape. With the quickness of thought and the aim of the wing-shot, Ken fired. From the brush rose a strange wild scream. George aimed at a shaking mass of grass and vines, but, before he could fire, a long, lean, ugly beast leaped straight out from the bank to drop into the water with a heavy splash.

  Like a man half scared to death Pepe waved Ken’s double-barreled gun. Then a yellow head emerged from the water. It was in line with the boat. Ken dared not shoot.

  “Kill him, George,” yelled Ken. “Tell Pepe to kill him.”

  George seemed unaccountably silent. But Ken had no time to look for him, for his eyes were riveted on Pepe. The native did not know how to hold a gun properly, let alone aim it. He had, however, sense enough to try. He got the stock under his chin, and, pointing the gun, he evidently tried to fire. But the hammerless did not go off. Then Pepe fumbled at the safety-catch, which he evidently remembered seeing Ken use.

  The jaguar, swimming with difficulty, perhaps badly wounded, made right for the boat. Pepe was standing on the seat. Awkwardly he aimed.

  Boom! He had pulled both triggers. The recoil knocked him backward. The hammerless fell in the boat, and Pepe’s broad back hit the water; his bare, muscular legs clung to the gunwale, and slipped loose.

  He had missed the jaguar, for it kept on toward the boat. Still Ken dared not shoot.

  “George, what on earth is the matter with you?” shouted Ken.

  Then Ken saw him standing in the brush on the bank, fussing over the crazy .32. Of course at the critical moment something had gone wrong with the old rifle.

  Pepe’s head bobbed up just on the other side of the boat. The jaguar was scarcely twenty feet distant and now in line with both boat and man. At that instant a heavy swirl in the water toward the middle of the river drew Ken’s attention. He saw the big crocodile, and the great creature did not seem at all lazy at that moment.

  George began to scream in Spanish. Ken felt his hair stiffen and his face blanch. Pepe, who had been solely occupied with the jaguar, caught George’s meaning and turned to see the peril in his rear.

  He bawled his familiar appeal to the saints. Then he grasped the gunwale of the boat just as it swung against the branches of the low-leaning tree. He vaulted rather than climbed aboard.

  Ken forgot that Pepe could understand little English, and he yelled: “Grab an oar, Pepe. Keep the jaguar in the water. Don’t let him in the boat.”

  But Pepe, even if he had understood, had a better idea. Nimble, he ran over the boat and grasped the branches of the tree just as the jaguar flopped paws and head over the stern gunwale.

  Ken had only a fleeting instant to get a bead on that yellow body, and before he could be sure of an aim the branch weighted with Pepe sank down to hide both boat and jaguar. The chill of fear for Pepe changed to hot rage at this new difficulty.

  Then George began to shoot.

  Spang!

  Ken heard the bullet hit the boat.

  “George — wait!” shouted Ken. “Don’t shoot holes in the boat. You’ll sink it.”

  Spang! Spang! Spang! Spang!

  That was as much as George cared about such a possibility. He stood on the bank and worked the lever of his .32 with wild haste. Ken plainly heard the spat of the bullets, and the sound was that of lead in contact with wood. So he knew George was not hitting the jaguar.

  “You’ll ruin the boat!” roared Ken.

  Pepe had worked up from the lower end of the branch, and as soon as he straddled it and hunched himself nearer shore the foliage rose out of the water, exposing the boat. George kept on shooting till his magazine was empty. Ken’s position was too low for him to see the jaguar.

  Then the boat swung loose from the branch and, drifting down, gradually approached the shore.

  “Pull yourself together, George,” called Ken. “Keep cool. Make sure of your aim. We’ve got him now.”

  “He’s mine! He’s mine! He’s mine! Don’t you dare shoot!” howled George. “I got him!”

  “All right. But steady up, can’t you? Hit him once, anyway.”

  Apparently without aim George fired. Then, jerking the lever, he fired again. The boat drifted into overhanging vines. Once more Ken saw a yellow and black object, then a trembling trail of leaves.

  “He’s coming out below you. Look out,” yelled Ken.

  George disappeared. Ken saw no sign of the jaguar and heard no shot or shout from George. Pepe dropped from his branch to the bank and caught the boat. Ken called, and while Pepe rowed over to the island, he got into some clothes fit to hunt in. Then they hurried back across the channel to the bank.

  Ken found the trail of the jaguar, followed it up to the edge of the brush, and lost it in the weedy flat. George came out of a patch of bamboos. He looked white and shaky and wild with disappointment.

  “Oh, I had a dandy shot as he came out, but the blamed gun jammed again. Come on, we’ll get him. He’s all shot up. I bet I hit him ten times. He won’t get away.”

  Ken finally got George back to camp. The boat was half full of water, making it necessary to pull it out on the bank and turn it over. There were ten bullet-holes in it.

  “George, you hit the boat, anyway,” Ken said; “now we’ve a job on our hands.”

  Hal came puffing into camp. He was red of face, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. He had a small animal of some kind in a sack, and his legs were wet to his knees.

  “What was — all the — pegging about?” he asked, breathlessly. “I expected to find camp surrounded by Indians.”

  “Kid, it’s been pretty hot round here for a little. George and Pepe rounded up a tiger. Tell us about it, George,” said Ken.

  So while Ken began to whittle pegs to pound into the bullet-holes, George wiped his flushed, sweaty face and talked.

  “We were up there a piece, round the bend. I saw a black squirrel and went ashore to get him. But I couldn’t find him, and in kicking round in the brush I came into a kind of trail or runway. Then I ran plumb into that darned jaguar. I was so scared I couldn’t remember my gun. But the cat turned and ran. It was lucky he didn’t make at me. When I saw him run I got back my courage. I called for Pepe to row down-stream and keep a lookout. Then I got into the flat. I must have come down a good ways before I saw him. I shot, and he dodged back into the brush again. I fired into the moving bushes where he was. And pretty soon I ventured to get in on the bank, where I had a better chance. I guess it was about that time that I heard you yell. Then it all happened. You hit him! Didn’t you hear him scream? What a jump he made! If it hadn’t been so terrible when your hammerless kicked Pepe overboard, I would have died laughing. Then I was paralyzed when the jaguar swam for the boat. He was hurt, for the water was bloody. Things came off quick, I tell you. Like a monkey Pepe scrambled into the tree. When I got my gun loaded the jaguar was crouched down in the bottom of the boat watching Pepe. Then I began to shoot. I can’t realize he got away from us. What was the reason you didn’t knock him?”

  “Well, you see, George, there were two good reasons,” Ken replied. “The first was that at that time I was busy dodging bullets from your rifle. And the second was that you threatened my life if I killed your jaguar.”

  “Did I get as nutty as that? But it was pretty warm there for a little. . . . Say, was he a big one? My eyes were so hazy I didn’t see him clear.”

  “He wasn’t big, not half as big as the one I lost yesterday. Yours was a long, wiry beast, like a panther, and mean-looking.”

  Pepe sat on the bank, and while he nursed his bruises he smoked. Once he made a speech that was untranslatable, but Hal gave it an interpretation which was probably near correct.

  “That’s right, Pepe. Pretty punk tiger-hunters — mucho punk!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  WATCHING A RUNWAY

  “I’LL TELL YOU what, fellows,” said Hal. “I know where we can get a tiger.”

  “We’ll get one in the neck if we don’t watch out,” replied George.

  Ken thought that Hal looked very frank and earnest, and honest and eager, but there was never any telling about him.

  “Where?” he asked, skeptically.

  “Down along the river. You know I’ve been setting traps all along. There’s a flat sand-bar for a good piece down. I came to a little gully full of big tracks, big as my two hands. And fresh!”

  “Honest Injun, kid?” queried Ken.

  “Hope to die if I’m lyin’,” replied Hal. “I want to see somebody kill a tiger. Now let’s go down there in the boat and wait for one to come to drink. There’s a big log with driftwood lodged on it. We can hide behind that.”

  “Great idea, Hal,” said Ken. “We’d be pretty safe in the boat. I want to say that tigers have sort of got on my nerves. I ought to go over in the jungle to look for the one I crippled. He’s dead by now. But the longer I put it off the harder it is to go. I’ll back out yet. . . . Come, we’ll have an early dinner. Then to watch for Hal’s tiger.”

  The sun had just set, and the hot breeze began to swirl up the river when Ken slid the boat into the water. He was pleased to find that it did not leak.

  “We’ll take only two guns,” said Ken, “my .351 and the hammerless, with some ball-cartridges. We want to be quiet to-night, and if you fellows take your guns you’ll be pegging at ducks and things. That won’t do.”

  Pepe sat at the oars with instructions to row easily. George and Hal occupied the stern-seats, and Ken took his place in the bow, with both guns at hand.

  The hot wind roared in the cypresses, and the river whipped up little waves with white crests. Long streamers of gray moss waved out over the water and branches tossed and swayed. The blow did not last for many minutes. Trees and river once more grew quiet. And suddenly the heat was gone.

  As Pepe rowed on down the river, Cypress Island began to disappear round a bend, and presently was out of sight. Ducks were already in flight. They flew low over the boat, so low that Ken could almost have reached them with the barrel of his gun. The river here widened. It was full of huge snags. A high, wooded bluff shadowed the western shore. On the left, towering cypresses, all laced together in dense vine and moss webs, leaned out.

  Under Hal’s direction Pepe rowed to a pile of driftwood, and here the boat was moored. The gully mentioned by Hal was some sixty yards distant. It opened like the mouth of a cave. Beyond the cypresses thick, intertwining bamboos covered it.

  “I wish we’d gone in to see the tracks,” said Ken. “But I’ll take your word, Hal.”

  “Oh, they’re there, all right.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Looks great to me! That’s a runway, Hal. . . . Now, boys, get a comfortable seat, and settle down to wait. Don’t talk. Just listen and watch. Remember, soon we’ll be out of the jungle, back home. So make hay while the sun shines. Watch and listen! Whoever sees or hears anything first is the best man.”

  For once the boys were as obedient as lambs. But then, Ken thought, the surroundings were so beautiful and wild and silent that any boys would have been watchful.

  There was absolutely no sound but the intermittent whir of wings. The water-fowl flew by in companies — ducks, cranes, herons, snipe, and the great Muscovies. Ken never would have tired of that procession. It passed all too soon, and then only an occasional water-fowl swept swiftly by, as if belated.

  Slowly the wide river-lane shaded. But it was still daylight, and the bank and the runway were clearly distinguishable. There was a moment — Ken could not tell just how he knew — when the jungle awakened. It was not only the faint hum of insects; it was a sense as if life stirred with the coming of twilight.

  Pepe was the first to earn honors at the listening game. He held up a warning forefinger. Then he pointed under the bluff. Ken saw a doe stepping out of a fringe of willows.

  “Don’t move — don’t make a noise,” whispered Ken.

  The doe shot up long ears and watched the boat. Then a little fawn trotted out and splashed in the water. Both deer drank, then seemed in no hurry to leave the river.

  Next moment Hal heard something downstream and George saw something up-stream. Pepe again whispered. As for Ken, he saw little dark shapes moving out of the shadow of the runway. He heard a faint trampling of hard little hoofs. But if these animals were javelin — of which he was sure — they did not come out into the open runway. Ken tried to catch Pepe’s attention without making a noise; however, Pepe was absorbed in his side of the river. Ken then forgot he had companions. All along the shores were faint splashings and rustlings and crackings.

  A loud, trampling roar rose in the runway and seemed to move backward toward the jungle, diminishing in violence.

  “Pigs running — something scared ‘em,” said George.

  ‘“S-s-s-sh!” whispered Ken.

  All the sounds ceased. The jungle seemed to sleep in deep silence.

  Ken’s eyes were glued to the light patch of sand-bank where it merged in the dark of the runway. Then Ken heard a sound — what, he could not have told. But it made his heart beat fast.

  There came a few pattering thuds, soft as velvet; and a shadow, paler than the dark background, moved out of the runway.

  With that a huge jaguar loped into the open. He did not look around. He took a long, easy bound down to the water and began to lap.

  Either Pepe or George jerked so violently as to make the boat lurch. They seemed to be stifling.

  “Oh, Ken, don’t miss!” whispered Hal.

  Ken had the automatic over the log and in line. His teeth were shut tight, and he was cold and steady. He meant not to hurry.

  The jaguar was a heavy, squat, muscular figure, not graceful and beautiful like the one Ken had crippled. Suddenly he raised his head and looked about. He had caught a scent.

  It was then that Ken lowered the rifle till the sight covered the beast — lower yet to his huge paws, then still lower to the edge of the water. Ken meant to shoot low enough this time. Holding the rifle there, and holding it with all his strength, he pressed the trigger once — twice. The two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Ken expected to see this jaguar leap, but the beast crumpled up and sank in his tracks.

  Then the boys yelled, and Ken echoed them. Pepe was wildly excited, and began to fumble with the oars.

  “Wait! Wait, I tell you!” ordered Ken.

  “Oh, Ken, you pegged him!” cried Hal. “He doesn’t move. Let’s go ashore. What did I tell you? It took me to find the tiger.”

  Ken watched with sharp eyes and held his rifle ready, but the huddled form on the sand never so much as twitched.

  “I guess I plugged him,” said Ken, with unconscious pride.

  Pepe rowed the boat ashore, and when near the sand-bar he reached out with an oar to touch the jaguar. There was no doubt about his being dead. The boys leaped ashore and straightened out the beast. He was huge, dirty, spotted, bloody, and fiercely savage even in death. Ken’s bullets had torn through the chest, making fearful wounds. Pepe jabbered, and the boys all talked at once. When it came to lifting the jaguar into the boat they had no slight task. The short, thick-set body was very heavy. But at last they loaded it in the bow, and Pepe rowed back to the island. It was still a harder task to get the jaguar up the high bank. Pepe kindled a fire so they would have plenty of light, and then they set to work at the skinning.

  What with enthusiasm over the stalk, and talk of the success of the trip, and compliments to Ken’s shooting, and care of the skinning, the boys were three hours at the job. Ken, remembering Hiram Bent’s teachings, skinned out the great claws himself. They salted the pelt and nailed it up on the big cypress.

  “You’d never have got one but for me,” said Hal. “That’s how I pay you for the tricks you’ve played me!”

  “By George, Hal, it’s a noble revenge!” cried Ken, who, in the warmth and glow of happiness of the time, quite believed his brother.

  Pepe went to bed first. George turned in next. Ken took a last look at the great pelt stretched on the cypress, and then he sought his blankets. Hal, however, remained up. Ken heard him pounding stakes in the ground.

  “Hal, what’re you doing?”

  “I’m settin’ my trot-lines,” replied Hal, cheerfully.

  “Well, come to bed.”