tion. But I knew what hardships and privations will do to a man; the marks of the jungle were upon him, and I had no reason to doubt the statement of his identity. What his story might prove to be I couldn’t guess. Perhaps it might be the recital of strange but perfectly obvious facts, perhaps, as the consul had so lightly assumed, it would prove merely the wanderings of arf unhinged mind. It was obvious that he had undergone terrific hardships and suffering, and it was evident that he was really a sick man. Whatever his tale, he would be the better for the telling of it; it would relieve his mind, and moreover I was very curious to hear it. But he needed good food first, and the way in which he was wolfing it down indicated how hungry he was.
“I suppose you went to the consul to enlist his aid,” I hazarded.
“Only to the extent of getting him to cable to the States for funds,” he told me. “I have friends there, and some money. I didn’t expect charity. But he wanted proof of my identity. I”
“I’ll gladly send a cable for you,” I assured him, “but what you need most of all is a darned good rest and medical attention. Just as soon as you’ve told me your story I’m going to take you down to the Anglo-American hospital at Bellavista and let Dr. McCornack look after you. You’ve been through a lot, I know, and you’ve been racked with jungle fever. Now if you’re through we’ll go into the smoking room, find a snug corner and you can tell me your tale.”
The Story of the Jungle
“START at the beginning,” I told him when we were comfortably ensconced with pipes going. “All I know about the Matson expedition is that it was supposed to be a scientific exploration of the unknown portion of the Gran Pajonal, although everyone knew that it was primarily a prospecting trip in Matson’s personal interest. Also, I prophesied that it would fail. It was too large—fifteen white men could never get through with all the equipment necessary—it was badly outfitted and, yourself excepted, there was not a member of the party who was competent to explore unknown jungles. But as the expedition expected to be gone eighteen months we weren’t particularly worried when it was a few months overdue. Unforeseen circumstances are always arising, there are invariably delays in jungle exploration, and there were chances that the party had gone down some river and had come out over in Brazil, Guiana or Venezuela. However, some of Matson’s friends tried to get the government to send planes over the Pajonal to see if the party could be located, but the government wouldn’t risk it. It’s a dangerous place for a plane, and two that attempted to fly across about three years ago were never heard from. I”
“I can tell you about those, too,” Stirling exclaimed, interrupting my words. “They were brought down and destroyed just as were Matson and all the rest. The Death Drum of”
“Hold on!” I admonished him. “We’ll never get anywhere that way. I want a connected story—in proper sequence, old man. Let me see. The expedition started in at the Chicaguey River, I believe. Now fire away and tell me just what happened after you left the last outpost of civilization at Merced.”
“Not much for several weeks,” said Stirling. “Just the usual things—jungle rivers, half-civilized Indians. It wasn’t until we got into the Pajonal itself that anything unusual happened.”
“All right, begin where anything unusual did happen;” I told him, whereupon he proceeded to narrate the following amazing tale.
“The trouble really began when we ran into some terrible rapids and lost two of our cayucos[1] with most of the provisions and a lot of equipment. I advised Matson to turn back, but he wouldn’t listen. He said there would be game in abundance in the pajonal, that there were plenty of fish in the streams, and that Biddle, the botanist of the party, would be able to tell us of edible plants, and that we could easily live off the country and conserve our remaining supplies for emergencies. Two days later our Cholo or Indian carriers deserted us. But we didn’t mind that. We didn’t really need them, now that there was nothing much for them to carry, and their going meant just so many less to feed. Besides, we still had six Chuncho Indians along. But Matson was wrong. The farther we pushed into the pajonal the less game we found. I have never seen a place so barren of animal life. Even the monkeys were scarce. All we could find were a few macaws, parrots, toucans and now and then a boa or anaconda, and it was almost an impossibility to catch fish. If it hadn’t been for our Chunchos we would have starved. It takes a lot of parrots and toucans to feed twenty-one men. But even the Indians had trouble getting fish. They shot a few with their bows and arrows, but most were secured by using mazetta—you know the stuff—the leaves which are pounded and thrown into the water and that stupefy the fish. But mazetta was terribly scarce. Biddle of course proved an utter flop. He didn’t feel sure which fruits and roots were edible—he went entirely by their botanical relationships to other edible things—and several of us were deathly sick after eating some tubers he recommended. There was no use in arguing with Matson. He insisted we would go on—said it would be farther and harder to get back to Merced than to reach a tributary of the Maranon and go down to the Amazon. There were thirteen besides him and myself, and the others were all tender feet, as far as jungle work was concerned, so they stuck by Matson and it was hopeless for me to try to influence them. And of course I couldn’t desert and go back alone.
The Meeting of the Indians in the Wilderness
THEN we met the first of the Pajonal Indians. So far we hadn’t seen a sign of human beings—not even a deserted clearing or village. It was about seven
- ↑ Small fishing boats used in Venezuela.
