Part 8 (1/2)
”The air feels like dawn,” whispered Winthrope. ”We'll soon be able to see the brute.”
”And he us,” rejoined Blake.
In this both were mistaken. During the brief false dawn they were puzzled by the odd appearance of the ground. The sudden flood of full daylight found them staring down into a dense white fog.
”So they have that here!” muttered Blake--”fever-fog!”
”Beastly shame!” echoed Winthrope. ”I'm sure the creature has gone off.”
This a.s.sertion was met by an outburst of snarls and yells that made all start back and crouch down again in their sheltering hollow. As before, Blake was the first to recover.
”Bet you're right,” he said. ”The big one has gone off, and a pack of these African coyotes are having a sc.r.a.p over the bones.”
”You mean jackals. It sounds like the nasty beasts.”
”If it wasn't for that fog, I'd go down and get our share of the game.”
”Would it not be very dangerous, Mr. Blake?” asked Miss Leslie. ”What a fearful noise!”
”I've chased coyotes off a calf with a rope; but that's not the proposition. You don't find me fooling around in that sewer gas of a fog. We'll roost right where we are till the sun does for it. We've got enough malaria in us already.”
”Will it be long, Blake?” asked Winthrope.
”Huh? Getting hungry this quick? Wait till you've tramped around a week, with nothing to eat but your shoes.”
”Surely, Mr. Blake, it will not be so bad!” protested Miss Leslie.
”Sorry, Miss Jenny; but cocoanut palms don't blow over every day, and when those nuts are gone, what are we going to do for the next meal?”
”Could we not make bows?” suggested Winthrope. ”There seems to be no end of game about.”
”Bows--and arrows without points! Neither of us could hit a barn door, anyway.”
”We could practise.”
”Sure--six weeks' training on air pudding. I can do better with a handful of stones.”
”Then we should go at once to the cliffs,” said Miss Leslie.
”Now you're talking--and it's Pike Peak or bust, for ours. Here's one night to the good; but we won't last many more if we don't get fire. It's flints we're after now.”
”Could we not make fire by rubbing sticks?” said Winthrope, recalling his suggestion of the previous morning. ”I've heard that natives have no trouble--”
”So've I, and what's more, I've seen 'em do it. Never could make a go of it myself, though.”
”But if you remember how it is done, we have at least some chance--”
”Give you ten to one odds! No; we'll scratch around for a flint good and plenty before we waste time that way.”
”The mist is going,” observed Miss Leslie.