Everyone of us knew how to swim; but young Elwin said he had never swum fifty yards before. Still, he was willing to risk it and Condon—a big good natured Irishman—offered to give him a hand if he got tired. Then we had to decide what we could take over. Most of the stuff we could leave until we had made a raft when we could cross over and get it. That is, if the Indians didn’t get it first. But we had to take that chance, and the only opportunity they would have would be while we were crossing. Once we were over we could keep the stuff covered by our rifles. But we solved that.
Attack by Indians and Two of the Party Wounded
BARLOW offered to stay behind—alone—and guard the stuff until we could come back for it. He wasn’t so keen on swimming, he said, and he’d rather risk the Indians than the crocodiles. Then Elwin said he’d stay, too. We thought that it was lucky he did, for Condon was grabbed by a cayman and carried down. But if he had known what was in store for him I guess the youngster would have chosen the crocodile way.
The rest of us made it. We had carried matches and an axe, and there was plenty of bamboo and balsa.[1] While we worked we heard Barlow shoot, but we couldn’t see any Indians, and both he and Edwin seemed all right. So we went on working. Suddenly we heard a scream and turned to see Barlow fighting with the Indians. We grabbed our revolvers—we’d left the rifles on the other side—but we couldn’t shoot. If we had we’d have been as likely to hit Barlow as the Campas. They were fighting hand-to-hand on the bank. The Indians were using their long-bladed stabbing spears and Barlow was using his clubbed rifle. We couldn’t understand why he didn’t shoot, and we couldn’t see a sign of Elwin. It was all over in a minute, but it seemed hours before Barlow broke away, dashed down the bank in a shower of spears and arrows, and dove into the stream. He was a wonderful swimmer and he got across all right. The Indians had crept along the bank and had rushed him and Elwin, he told us. The first warning he had was a cry from Elwin—that was the yell we had heard—and his rifle jammed. They got Elwin, cut him down with a spear; but he wasn’t killed. Barlow saw them carry him off, writhing, unable to speak or scream, with blood pouring from the big hole in his throat where the spear had struck.
Barlow himself had a dozen wounds on his body and limbs. But none were serious. Of course the Indians carried off all our stuff. We took a few pot shots at them, but it didn’t do any good, and we couldn’t afford to waste ammunition—we had only a few rounds left anyway—with days, weeks, perhaps months of jungle ahead of us. There was only one hope. The stream must flow to the Maranon or to some Amazon tributary, and if there weren’t big rapids or falls, and if we could manage to get food enough to keep us alive, and if we didn’t have trouble with the Indians, we would eventually reach some outpost of civilization. We got the raft launched late that afternoon. But we couldn’t start off in the dark so we camped. We hadn’t seen any signs of Indians on our side of the river, but the Campas might have cayucos and might steal on us during the night, and we couldn’t sleep. That night we heard the war drums across the river. It meant that every tribe for miles would be against us. We couldn’t count on any food from Indians after that.
Nothing happened that night, and as soon as it was light we started down stream—ten white men on a crazy raft of balsa and bamboo tied together with vines, with no food, no outfit, with less than a hundred loaded cartridge among us, and hundreds of miles of jungle and forest, unknown currents and rapids ahead. We didn’t have one chance in ten thousand of getting through, but it was the only chance. But Matson had got as cock-sure as ever. He was impossible, but the others—all young fellows with no experience—thought him infallible. I didn’t count. I was just a scientist. And Matson hated me because he knew I had been right about the Campas and the fearful mess he had made of everything.
CHAPTER II
IT was on the second day, I think, that we found Elwin—or what was left of him. Even Matson turned pale and grew sick when we found the body. It was floating down stream, nude, horribly mutilated, headless, of course. We had to do something about it so we towed it ashore and buried it. I couldn’t help telling Matson what I thought.
“The Campas have got another white man’s head to take the place of the one you burned,” I reminded him. “Damn you, Matson, you’re as guilty of Elwin’s murder as if you had killed him yourself.”
Matson grew purple with rage. For a moment I thought he would kill me. But he was just a big bluffer, and for the first time the others took my side. Besides, he knew it was true. But he never spoke to me after that. We managed to get on somehow for the next two or three weeks. We didn’t strike any bad rapids. We didn’t meet Indians, and we got food enough to keep us alive. Once we killed a sixteen-foot anaconda and we feasted on him for three days. Now and then we got a cayman and ate its tail. We brought down a few monkeys and herons, and caught some fish. But we needed vegetable food. Bamboo shoots and grass and water-lily roots were all we had. But there weren’t any mosquitoes, none of us had fever, and our health was all right. It began to look as if we might
- ↑ The Spanish word balsa means a raft. It is used to designate a tree indigenous to South America, sometimes called corkwood. It is the lightest wood known, weighing 7 or 8 pounds to the cubic foot, about one-eighth of the specific gravity of water. It is used as an insulating material for dry ice containers (solid carbon dioxide) and for other analogous purposes, as for beverages or for ice cream. Its botanical name is Ochroma lagopus.
