IN WHICH BUNCO DISPLAYS UNCOMMON VALOUR, AND TIGERS COME TO GRIEF

Advancing cautiously, the travellers arrived at the brink of a dark ravine, in the bottom of which there was a good deal of brushwood, with here and there several pools of water.  They had remained a short time here on the top of the bank, listening to the various barks and cries of the wild animals around them, when their attention was arrested by several loud yelps, which sounded as if some creature were approaching them fast.  Bunco signed to them to stoop and follow him.  They did so, and had not advanced a hundred yards when the loud clatter of hoofs was heard.  Bunco crouched instantly and held his gun in readiness, while his black eyes glittered and his expressive features seemed to blaze with eagerness.  His followers also crouched among the bushes, and each grasped his club with a feeling that it was but a poor weapon of defence after all ­though better than nothing!

They had not to wait long, for, in a few minutes, a beautiful black wild horse came racing like the wind along the clear part of the ravine in the direction of the place where they were concealed.  The magnificent creature was going at his utmost speed, being pursued by a large tiger, and the steam burst from his distended nostrils, while his voluminous mane and tail waved wildly in the air.  The tiger gained on him rapidly.  Its bounds were tremendous; at each leap it rose several feet from the ground.  The poor horse was all but exhausted, for he slipped and came down on his knees, when abreast of, and not thirty yards distant from, the place where the travellers lay.  The tiger did not miss his opportunity.  He crouched and ran along with the twisting motion of a huge cat; then he sprang a clear distance of twenty feet and alighted on the horse’s back, seizing him by the neck with a fearful growl.  Now came Bunco’s opportunity.  While the noble horse reared and plunged violently in a vain attempt to get rid of his enemy, the cautious native took a steady aim, and was so long about it that some of the party nearly lost patience with him.  At last he fired, and the tiger fell off the horse, rolling and kicking about in all directions ­evidently badly wounded.  The horse meanwhile galloped away and was soon lost to view.

Instead of loading and firing again, Bunco threw down his gun, and, drawing a long knife, rushed in upon his victim.  His comrades, who thought him mad, sprang after him, but he had closed with the tiger and plunged his knife into it before they came up.  The creature uttered a tremendous roar and writhed rapidly about, throwing up clouds of dust from the dry ground, while Bunco made another dash at him and a plunge with his long knife, but he missed the blow and fell.  His comrades closed in and brandished their clubs, but the rapid motions of man and beast rendered it impossible for them to strike an effective blow without running the risk of hitting the man instead of the tiger.  In the midst of a whirlwind of dust and leaves, and a tempest of roars and yells, the bold native managed to drive his knife three times into the animal’s side, when it rolled over with a savage growl and expired.

“Are ye hurt, Bunco?” inquired Will Osten with much anxiety, when the man rose, covered with dust and blood, and stood before them.

“No moche hurt, only scrash a bit.”

“Scratched a bit!” exclaimed Larry, “it’s torn to tatters ye ought to be for bein’ so venturesome.”

“That’s so,” said Muggins; “ye shouldn’t ha’ done it, Bunco; what would have comed of us if ye’d bin killed, eh?”

“Oh, dat am noting,” said Bunco, drawing himself up proudly; “me hab kill lots of dem before; but dis one hims die hard.”

Will Osten, who was anxious to ascertain whether the man had really escaped serious injury, put a stop to the conversation by hurrying him off to the nearest pool and washing his wounds.  They proved, as he had said, to be trifling ­only a slight bite on the shoulder and a few tears, by the animal’s claws, on the arms and thighs.  When these were dressed, Bunco went to work actively to skin the tiger, ­an operation which he performed with great expedition, and then, having rolled it into a convenient bundle and slung it on his back, he re-loaded his gun and again resumed his duties as guide.  They had not gone far when a fierce growling behind them told that other wild animals, probably tigers, had scented out the carcass of the slain animal, and were already quarrelling over their meal.

Shortly after this they came suddenly and quite unexpectedly on a house or hut, which turned out to be the residence of a man who was half Spaniard half Indian.  The man received them kindly, and, finding that Bunco could speak Spanish, offered them hospitality with great politeness and evident satisfaction.

“Good luck to ’e, boy,” said Larry, when their host invited them to partake of a substantial meal, to which he had been about to sit down when they arrived, “it’s myself’ll be proud to welcome ye to ould Ireland if iver ye come that way.”

“Ask him, Bunco,” said Will Osten, “where we are, how far we are from the coast, and what is the name and distance of the nearest town.”

To these questions the Spaniard replied that they were in the northern part of the Republic of Ecuador, and not, as they had supposed, in Peru, which lay some hundreds of miles to the southward; that a couple of days’ walking would bring them to the coast, and that in two days more they could reach the town of Tacames.  This, being one of the few ports on the western coast of South America where vessels touched, was a place from which they might probably be able to make their way to California.  He added that there was a rumour of gold having been discovered of late in that region, but, for his part, he didn’t believe it, for he had heard the same rumour several times before, and nothing had ever come of it, at least as far as he knew.

“Ye’re wrong there, intirely, mister what’s-yer-name,” said Larry O’Hale, pausing for a moment in the midst of his devotion to the good things spread before him.  “Sure it’s my own brother Ted as wos out there a year gone by, an’ he swore he picked up goold like stones an’ putt them in his pocket, but the capting o’ the ship he sailed in towld him it wos brass, an’ his mates laughed at him to that extint that he flung it all overboord in a passion.  Faix, I’ve made up my mind that there is goold in Callyforny and that wan Larry O’Hale is distined for to make his fortin’ there ­so I’ll throuble ye for another hunk o’ that pottimus, or wotiver ye call it.  Prime prog it is, anyhow.”

An earnest discussion here followed as to the probability of gold having been found in California, and whether it was worth their while to try their fortune in that direction.  During the course of the meal, the Spaniard incidentally mentioned that on the previous night a tiger had broken into his enclosure, and injured a bullock so badly that he had been obliged to kill it, and he had little doubt the same beast would pay him another visit that night.

This was good news to the travellers, all of whom were keen ­though not all expert ­sportsmen.

As evening had already set in, they begged to be allowed to rest for a little so as to be ready for the tiger when he came.  Their host at once conducted them into a small room, where several hammocks were suspended from the walls.  Into these they quickly jumped, and, in a few minutes, the concert played by their noses told a tale of sweet repose after a day of unusual toil.

For several hours they slept, and then the Spaniard awoke them with the information that the tiger was coming!  Up they sprang, as a matter of course, and with considerable noise too, but Bunco soon impressed them with the necessity of being quiet.  The Spaniard had only two guns, one of which he handed to Will Osten.  The seamen were of necessity left to be spectators.

It is necessary here to describe the Spaniard’s hut, which was peculiar as to its architecture.  It was a mere shed made of bamboo canes closely placed together, and roofed with large cocoa and other leaves.  The floor was of rough boards covered with matting.  The whole structure stood on the top of a number of strong posts about twelve or fourteen feet from the ground, and the entrance was gained by a ladder which could be drawn up at night.  The object of this great elevation and the ladder, was protection from the nocturnal visit of wild beasts such as tigers or jaguars, as well as monkeys of a large size.  In the door of this hut there was a hole of about two feet square, at which the host stationed himself with the muzzle of his gun thrust through it.  Two smaller holes in the walls, which served for windows, were used on the present occasion as loopholes by Will Osten and Bunco.

Perfect silence was maintained for about half an hour.  The sky was cloudless and the moon full.  Not a breath of wind stirred a leaf of the forest that encircled the small clearing.  The buzz of mosquitoes, or the flapping about of a huge bat alone disturbed the silence of the night, and the watchers were beginning to fear it would turn out to be a false alarm, when the cattle in the yard began to low in a quick yet mournful tone.  They knew full well that their enemy was at hand!  A few minutes, that appeared an age, of anxiety followed.  Then some bullocks that had been purposely fastened near the hut began to bellow furiously.  Another instant, and the tiger cleared the fence with a magnificent bound, alighted in the yard, and crouched for a spring.  The moon shone full in his glaring eyeballs, making his head a splendid target.  Three shots crashed out in one report, and with a roar that would have done credit to the monarch of the African wilderness, this king of the western forest fell down and died.

He was a full-grown tiger with a beautifully marked skin, which Bunco was not long in stripping from the carcass, while the Spaniard, who was highly delighted by this success, set about preparing breakfast.  They were all too much excited to think of going to bed again; and, besides, it was within an hour of daybreak.

During the morning Will Osten persuaded his host to give him one of his old guns in exchange for a beautiful silver-mounted hunting knife, which was the only article of value that he happened to possess.  With this useful addition to their arms, the travellers resumed their journey shortly after dawn, being convoyed several miles on their way by their amiable host.  They parted from him, finally, with much regret and many professions of gratitude and esteem, especially from Larry, who, in the fulness of his impulsive nature, reiterated his pressing invitation to pay him a visit in his “swait little cabin in the bog of Clonave, County Westmeath, ould Ireland!”

We will not drag the reader through every step of the rough and adventurous journey which was accomplished by our travellers in the succeeding week, during which they became so familiar with tigers, that Muggins thought no more of their roaring than he did of the mewing of cats, while Larry actually got the length of kicking the “sarpints” out of his way, although he did express his conviction, now and then, that the “counthry wos mightily in want of a visit from Saint Patrick.”  They travelled steadily and surely under the guidance of the faithful Bunco, through tangled brake, and wild morass, and dense forest, and many a mile of sandy plain, until at length they reached the small town and port of Tacames, into which they entered one sultry afternoon, footsore and weary, with their clothes torn almost to tatters, and without a single coin ­of any realm whatever ­in their pockets.

“Well, here we are at last,” said Will Osten, with a sigh.

“True for ye,” responded Larry.

“That’s so,” said Muggins.

“It’s all well as ends well, which wos Billy Cowper’s opinion,” observed Old Peter.

Bunco made no remark, but he gave a quiet grunt, which might have meant anything ­or nothing ­as they entered the town.