levelled his gun at the canoe to strike it just below the water line. The powerful rifle ripped the jungle silence with its roar. The canoe and its howling occupants were hidden by a shower of spray. When it cleared, the canoe was sinking and the Indians were splashing their way towards shore.
‘Can I help you, dad?’
‘No. You and Roger keep paddling. But first pass the salt.’
Hal gave his father a startled look. Had the old man gone crazy?
‘Yes, I mean it, give me that can of salt.’
Hunt had pulled out the arrow and laid it beside the other. He noticed that the tip was covered with a black gum. That was curare poison. He knew it, because he carried some of it in his own kit — it was useful to the hunter.
He pulled up his sleeve. The arrow wound was slight. But the poison was enough to cause death in a few minutes. Animals and Indians who did not consume salt succumbed to it quickly. Salt-eating foreigners might succeed in throwing off its effect.
Hunt slashed the wound larger with the point of his hunting knife. Then he briskly rubbed salt into it. He filled his mouth with salt and washed it down with a little water.
‘Sorry to leave all the work to you,’ he said as he stretched himself out in the bottom of the boat.
Would you like to lie up on shore?’ ‘No, no. Keep going. I’ll be all right.’ Curare breaks the connection between the nerves and the muscles. It leaves the muscles limp. And that is why this deadly invention of the Amazon Indians is now being used to good purpose in European and American hospitals in cases where the tension of the muscles must be relaxed. But it is easy to go too far. Whether Hunt had taken in enough of the poison to relax him for ever, even he did not know.
The muscles in the head and neck were the first to be affected. He could not move his head. The numbness spread down over his chest to the between-rib muscles and the diaphragm which take care of respiration. As they became faint, he had trouble in breathing. He would rather just stop. He kept manfully at it, knowing it was his only chance to hang on to life.
The boys did not realize the seriousness of the situation. It was just as well, since there was nothing they could do. Their best service was to put distance between them and an angry Indian village.
Chapter 9
The Chase
Boom-boom-boom-boom, came an ominous sound through the forest.
‘Drums!’ Hal exclaimed ‘Those Indians must really be annoyed.’
He glanced back anxiously but there was no canoe in sight — as yet. He and Roger made the water churn with their paddles. The current helped, but unfortunately it would help their pursuers too.
Nosey made a whinnying sound like that of a pony.
‘Just be patient, little river horse,’ Roger said. ‘No time for you now.’
He pushed the bottle of fresh goat’s milk into a shady spot, sopped his handkerchief in the river, and threw it over the bottle to keep it cool.
Hal did not forget his map, but no sketching and noting were ever done so swiftly. He begrudged every moment away from his paddle.
There was another sound now, the roar of a rapid. Ahead, green and white waves leaped in the sunlight. They were beautiful, but black rocks showed their sullen faces beneath them.
There was no time to get out and look the situation over. No time to pick and choose channels. The boat flew at the rapid as if it would conquer it by mere speed.
The current dipped and became a green toboggan. It hissed like a snake and there was something snakelike in the way it glided swiftly down and wound between the rocks.
There was a louder roar and Roger, in the bow, froze as he saw what lay ahead. If Hal at stern paddle could manoeuvre the boat through this he was even better than Roger thought him.
The slope ended in a dive between two great boulders. If the flying arrow of a boat were steered just a trifle to the right or left there would be a resounding crash and nothing but splinters left on the Pastaza.
Roger
‘Can I help you, dad?’
‘No. You and Roger keep paddling. But first pass the salt.’
Hal gave his father a startled look. Had the old man gone crazy?
‘Yes, I mean it, give me that can of salt.’
Hunt had pulled out the arrow and laid it beside the other. He noticed that the tip was covered with a black gum. That was curare poison. He knew it, because he carried some of it in his own kit — it was useful to the hunter.
He pulled up his sleeve. The arrow wound was slight. But the poison was enough to cause death in a few minutes. Animals and Indians who did not consume salt succumbed to it quickly. Salt-eating foreigners might succeed in throwing off its effect.
Hunt slashed the wound larger with the point of his hunting knife. Then he briskly rubbed salt into it. He filled his mouth with salt and washed it down with a little water.
‘Sorry to leave all the work to you,’ he said as he stretched himself out in the bottom of the boat.
Would you like to lie up on shore?’ ‘No, no. Keep going. I’ll be all right.’ Curare breaks the connection between the nerves and the muscles. It leaves the muscles limp. And that is why this deadly invention of the Amazon Indians is now being used to good purpose in European and American hospitals in cases where the tension of the muscles must be relaxed. But it is easy to go too far. Whether Hunt had taken in enough of the poison to relax him for ever, even he did not know.
The muscles in the head and neck were the first to be affected. He could not move his head. The numbness spread down over his chest to the between-rib muscles and the diaphragm which take care of respiration. As they became faint, he had trouble in breathing. He would rather just stop. He kept manfully at it, knowing it was his only chance to hang on to life.
The boys did not realize the seriousness of the situation. It was just as well, since there was nothing they could do. Their best service was to put distance between them and an angry Indian village.
Chapter 9
The Chase
Boom-boom-boom-boom, came an ominous sound through the forest.
‘Drums!’ Hal exclaimed ‘Those Indians must really be annoyed.’
He glanced back anxiously but there was no canoe in sight — as yet. He and Roger made the water churn with their paddles. The current helped, but unfortunately it would help their pursuers too.
Nosey made a whinnying sound like that of a pony.
‘Just be patient, little river horse,’ Roger said. ‘No time for you now.’
He pushed the bottle of fresh goat’s milk into a shady spot, sopped his handkerchief in the river, and threw it over the bottle to keep it cool.
Hal did not forget his map, but no sketching and noting were ever done so swiftly. He begrudged every moment away from his paddle.
There was another sound now, the roar of a rapid. Ahead, green and white waves leaped in the sunlight. They were beautiful, but black rocks showed their sullen faces beneath them.
There was no time to get out and look the situation over. No time to pick and choose channels. The boat flew at the rapid as if it would conquer it by mere speed.
The current dipped and became a green toboggan. It hissed like a snake and there was something snakelike in the way it glided swiftly down and wound between the rocks.
There was a louder roar and Roger, in the bow, froze as he saw what lay ahead. If Hal at stern paddle could manoeuvre the boat through this he was even better than Roger thought him.
The slope ended in a dive between two great boulders. If the flying arrow of a boat were steered just a trifle to the right or left there would be a resounding crash and nothing but splinters left on the Pastaza.
Roger
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