Lost in the Forest - Robert Michael Ballantyne (summer beach reads txt) 📗

/> "Och, what claws!" exclaimed Larry.

"Ah!" said Bunco, smiling, "more teribuble for scratch than yoos grandmoder, eh?"

Before they could decide how to proceed, the arriero came up, threw the noose of his lasso over the head of the magnificent bird, and secured it easily. He measured eight feet seven inches from tip to tip of the expanded wings.

Will Osten was anxious to skin this bird, and carry it away with him as a trophy, but the guide protested. He said that the pass was now really within a short distance of them, but that the thunder-storm would soon come on, and if it caught them in the pass they ran a chance of all being lost. Will, therefore, contented himself with cutting off the head and talons of the condor, and then resumed his toilsome upward journey.

According to the arriero's prophecy, the storm burst upon them in less than two hours, while they were still some distance from the top of the pass.

Although they had now reached the region of snow, the zig-zag track by which they ascended was tolerably visible, but, as they proceeded, dark clouds overspread the sky, and snow fell heavily, while peals of muttering thunder came from afar, echoing among the mountain peaks and betokening the rapid approach of the storm. The arriero looked anxious, and urged the mules on with whip and voice, turning his eyes furtively, now and then, in the direction of the dark clouds. Presently, on turning one of the bends in the track, they came upon a singular party travelling in the opposite direction. Their singularity consisted chiefly in this, that instead of mules they had a train of bullock-waggons, which were laden with ponderous mill-machinery. At their head rode a fine-looking man of middle age, who addressed Will in Spanish. Bunco's services as interpreter being called into requisition, the traveller told them that the pass was pretty clear, but advised them to make haste, as the storm would soon break, and might render it impassable. On the same ground he excused himself for not staying to exchange news with them.

"Your cargo is a strange one," said Will, as they were about to part.

The traveller admitted that it was, and explained that he meant to erect a flour-mill in his native town, towards which he was hastening.

At these words the arriero seemed peculiarly affected. He advanced to the traveller and said a few words. The latter started, turned pale, and asked a few hurried questions. While the arriero was replying, the pallor of the traveller's countenance increased; a wild fire seemed to shoot from his eyes, and his hands clutched convulsively the poncho which covered his breast. Suddenly he returned to his followers and gave them a few hurried orders, then, without noticing any one, he put spurs to his mule, and galloping down the track like a madman, was out of sight in a moment. His men at once unharnessed the cattle and followed him, leaving the waggons and the ponderous machinery in the snow.

The first gust of the storm burst upon the travellers at this moment, and Will with his friends had to ride to a neighbouring cliff for shelter before he could ask the meaning of the peculiar conduct of the stranger. The guide soon cleared up the mystery by telling him, through Bunco, that the traveller was an inhabitant of the town which had been so recently destroyed by the earthquake. "I happened to know him by name," continued the guide, "and am aware that his wife with every member of his family was buried in the ruins. You saw how deeply he took it to heart, poor fellow."

"Poor fellow indeed; God help him," said Will sadly, as he left the shelter of the cliff, and continued the ascent.

They never saw the unfortunate man again, but it is worthy of remark that, years after, Will Osten heard of him through a friend who happened to cross the Andes at the same point. The blow had been so severe that he never returned to claim his property; and there it lay for many a day on the wild mountain pass--perchance there it lies still--far from the abodes of men, and utterly useless, save as a ponderous monument and memorial of the terrible catastrophe which had robbed its owner of home, kindred, wealth, and earthly hope.

The storm had at last burst upon our travellers in all its fury--and very different is the storm in these weird altitudes, where earth and heaven seem to meet, than in the plains below. The wind came whistling down the gorges as if through funnels, driving before it not only snow, but sand and pebbles, so that for a time our travellers being unable to face it, were compelled to seek shelter under a ledge of rock. After the first burst there was a short lull, of which they availed themselves to push on. Will, being mounted on the best mule, went considerably ahead of his companions; but at last the falling snow became so thick as to render objects almost invisible. The track, too, which ran unpleasantly near the edge of a precipice, was almost obliterated, so he thought it best to wait for the others. Just then another squall came howling down the gorge at his right. His mule became restive and frightened, and, slipping on the snow, came down on its knees. The violence of the wind rendered it almost impossible to keep the saddle, so this decided Will. He slid off. Scarcely had he done so when there came a gust which fortunately threw him flat down; at the same time his mule staggered over the edge of the precipice. One moment Will saw the poor animal struggling to regain its footing--the next it was rolling down into the abyss, bounding from rock to rock, and he knew, although the swirling snow prevented him seeing it, that his steed was, in a few minutes, dashed to pieces in the gorge a thousand feet below. For some time Will did not dare to rise. The gale grew fiercer every moment, and the darkness--not of night, but of thick clouds--increased. As the snow accumulated over him he feared being buried alive, so he struggled out of the drift and looked around him. It was utter chaos--not a landmark was visible. Having turned round once or twice, he did not know how to direct his steps. While hesitating as to what he should do, another gust swept by, carried away his hat and poncho, tore his over-coat right up the back and compelled him to lie down again, in which position he remained until he felt benumbed with cold. Knowing that to remain much longer in that position would insure his death, our hero rose and staggered forward a few paces--he scarce knew whither. There was a lull in the gale at this time, and he continued to advance, when a voice behind arrested him.

"Hooroo! doctor, whereabouts are ye?"

"Hallo! Larry, here I am, all right."

"Faix, it's well ye are that same," said Larry, looming through the drifting snow like a white spectre, "for it's all wrong with us. Wan o' the poor baists wi' the packs has gone clane over the cliffs an' bin smashed to smithereens--more be token it's the wan that carried the kittle an' the salt beef, but the wan wi' the biscuit an' the fryin'-pan is safe, an' that's a comfort, anyhow."

Will expressed his regret at this, and was beginning to tell how his own mule had been killed, when Bunco suddenly made his appearance, and, seizing him by the collar, dragged him with extreme violence a few paces forward. For one brief instant a flush of anger mingled with Will's surprise at this unceremonious treatment; but all other feelings gave way to one of gratitude to God when, observing his faithful attendant point to the spot from which he had been dragged, he turned round and saw that he had been standing on the extreme verge of the precipice. Had he advanced one step after being arrested by the voice of his comrade, his mangled body would, in a few seconds, have been lying beside that of his poor mule!

There was no time to speak of these things, however, just then, for the storm, or rather the squall, burst forth again with increased violence, and the pass was still before them--so like the men of a forlorn hope who press up to the breach, they braced themselves to renew the conflict, and pushed on. The truth of the proverb, that "fortune favours the brave," was verified on this occasion. The storm passed over almost as quickly as it had begun, the sky cleared up, and, before night set in, they had crossed the pass, and were rapidly descending the eastern side of the mountains towards the fertile plains and valleys of Columbia.

The transition from the wintry cold of the high regions of the Andes to the intense tropical heat of the plains and forests was rapidly made. In a few days the travellers were obliged to throw off their ponchos and warm garments, and at the end of a few weeks we find them stretched out lazily in the stern of a canoe, under the guidance of four Creoles, floating quietly down one of the numerous tributaries of the Orinoco. The change was not only sudden but also agreeable. In truth, our adventurers had been so long subjected by that time to excitement and exhausting toil--especially while crossing the mountains--that the most robust among them began to long for a little rest, both bodily and mental, and, now that they lay idly on their backs gazing at the passing scenery, listening to the ripple of the water and smoking cigarettes, it seemed as if the troubles of life had all passed away and nothing but peace lay around and before them.

"'Tis paradise intirely," observed Larry, removing his cigarette for a moment, and winking facetiously at a small monkey which happened to peep at him just then through the foliage overhead.

"Him won't be long like dat," said Bunco.

"Come, now, ye ill-omened spalpeen, don't be causin' yer dirty clouds to come over this purty vision. Wot's the use o' cryin' before ye're hurt, or pretendin' to know the futur' whin ye knows nothin' about it? Ye're no better than a baboon, Bunco, as I've fraiquintly had occasion to tell ye before now."

Bunco made no reply to this, but smiled slightly as he changed his position to one of greater comfort, and lit a fresh cigarette.

"Larry," said Will Osten, "did you remember to put the fresh meat in the canoe this morning?"

"Och! morther," cried the Irishman, starting up with a look of desperate annoyance on his expressive face; "sure I've wint an' forgot it! It's hangin' at this minit on the branch where I putt it last night for fear o' the tigers--bad luck to them!"

"Ho, ho!" ejaculated Bunco, "paradise am gone a'ready!"

Larry turned upon his friend with a look that betokened no good, and appeared to meditate an assault, when Will Osten said quietly,--"Never mind, Larry; I luckily observed your omission, and put it into the canoe myself."

"Ah, then, doctor, it's not right of 'e to trifle wid a poor man's feelin's in that way, especially in regard to his stummick, which, wid me, is a tinder point. Howsever, it's all