CHAPTER XVIII
SOME RARE PICTURES
Happy One sent back the call to the porters in the rear, and at the news of elephants there were mingled expressions. While some of the black men chanted of the power of the mighty beast, seemingly somewhat afraid of it, others declaimed of the sure-shooting abilities of the white men, and improvised chants concerning the amount of meat they would soon have to feast upon.
“And there sure is some meat on an elephant,” said the former soldier. “I hope we don’t have to kill any; but, if we do, there’ll be a feast such as you never saw before.”
“Is elephant meat good to eat?” asked Joe.
“The natives will eat almost anything,” said the sergeant, “as long as it’s meat. But, of course, there are some parts of an elephant better than another. The heart is as good eating as I ever enjoyed, and the trunk makes fine soup. Elephant’s feet, properly cooked, are delicious.”
“Elephant’s feet!” cried Blake. “I’ve eaten pig’s trotters, but elephant’s----”
“The way to do it,” said the former soldier, “is to make a hole in the ground, build a fire in it, get a lot of hot embers ready, and bury the foot in them. Go off for the day, and when you come back the meat inside the foot will be roasted to a turn and no beef or mutton can equal it. But we may not get an elephant.”
“We’ll make a hard try for some pictures, anyhow,” said Blake. “Let’s get our cameras ready, Joe.”
“Oh, you’ve got plenty of time,” said the sergeant. “Though this trail is comparatively fresh, still a herd of elephants can travel much faster than you would think, merely to look at them. They are a good many miles off now, and, though they may stop to feed, we can hardly come up to them to-day. It may take three days.”
“But it’s a good trail to follow,” spoke Joe.
“Yes, indeed,” agreed C. C. Piper. “When a herd of elephants go along, they don’t stop for small obstacles. They knock down anything that gets in their way. That makes it good for us. But if we go after these big beasts we may all----”
Unconsciously he was falling into his old habit of predicting misfortune, but he caught himself in time, as he saw Blake and Joe looking curiously at him.
“You didn’t catch me that time!” he cried, gaily. “Everything is going to be lovely, and you’ll get some fine views; I’m sure.”
“That’s the way to talk!” cried Blake, encouragingly.
“Well, let’s move,” suggested Joe. “This is better than crawling through a jungle.”
“But won’t it take us too far away from our search?” asked Mr. Duncan, anxiously. “I want to get to the village where those desperate kidnappers are. My poor Jessie may be suffering all sorts of hardships.”
“I appreciate that,” said the sergeant, gently; “and we won’t lose a moment more of time than is necessary. But we must keep the porters well supplied with meat, or they will desert us, and then we would be helpless in the midst of the jungle. So if we can get an elephant it will be to our advantage.
“Then, too, this trail is an easy one to follow, and though it is somewhat out of our way we can, in the end, save time by following it.”
“That’s all I want to know,” said the father. “I want the boys to get their pictures; but, oh! I do so want to find Jessie!”
“And so do I, Dad!” cried Joe. “And we will find her, too. We won’t waste any time, but we’ve got to depend on our porters when it comes to the last, and there may be a fight.”
“Yes, that is so,” admitted Mr. Duncan.
They took up the elephant trail, and followed it until nightfall. They made camp near a spring, and Joe, who went out to trace a bird with a peculiar call, was lucky enough to shoot an eland, which furnished the camp with meat, and sent the porters into transports of joy.
Early the next morning, after an uneventful night, save that lions roared in the distance, and hyenas howled, they again took up the trail. They followed it for three days, but could not seem to come up to the big creatures. Once or twice they heard them in the distance, crashing through the underbrush, and pulling up thorn trees on which they fed. But the wind was blowing from behind, carrying the scent from the hunters directly to the pachyderms, so that they were continually being alarmed and kept on the march.
“But when the wind dies down, or changes, we’ll have a good chance,” said the sergeant, and C. C. Piper agreed with him. “They’ll get tired of being continually on the move,” went on the former soldier, “and stop to rest.”
“Maybe they’ll lie down and go to sleep,” suggested Joe.
“Elephants sleep standing up, as a rule,” said the sergeant. “It’s only one of their queer habits.”
But if the boys did not get elephant pictures as soon as they hoped, they did get some other rare films. Once they were lucky enough to snap a herd of zebras, and again a number of wild ostriches were come upon. The latter were nearly the cause of a tragedy, for, after the pictures had been taken, one of the porters, not understanding what was going on, came from where the other blacks had made a temporary camp, and started across the plain where the big birds were.
A cock ostrich chased him, and as the kick of these birds is as bad as one from a horse, with the additional danger that the toe-nails can cut like a knife, the black man was in peril. He started to run, but the ostrich was speeding after him.
Happy One saw his fellow porter’s danger and called out something in their queer tongue.
“What is he saying?” asked Blake, while C. C. caught up his gun and drew a bead on the angry bird.
“He is telling him,” translated the sergeant, “to pick up a piece of thorn bush, and hold it in front of the bird.”
“What good will that do; charm it?” asked Blake.
“No, but there is a very tender spot in the neck of an ostrich, just under the head,” said the sergeant, “and it dreads the prick of a thorn there more than anything else. That’s the only way to protect yourself from one of the big birds.”
The black man did as directed. As he ran he caught up a long piece of thorn bush. Turning, he faced the ostrich, and, as he advanced the thorns toward the bird’s neck, the creature stopped and then began to “waltz” around the porter, seeking an opening. But the man continually presented the thorn bush at the creature, and then, getting a good chance, C. C. shot the big bird.
“Too bad,” said the actor-hunter; “but it had to be done.” Blake and Joe had filmed the odd scene, and later they took some of the ostrich feathers as souvenirs, some of the porters adding the plumes to their already fantastic headdresses.
“I wonder when we will come up to those elephants?” asked Blake a little later that day, when they were once more on the march.
“The trail is getting fresher,” said C. C. “We ought to be up to them soon.”
“I’ll have one of the porters climb a tree, and see if he can make them out,” said the sergeant.
The black man had scarcely reached the top of a tall bamboo standing on the edge of the broad trail, than he set up a shout.
“What does he say?” demanded Blake.
“He sees the elephants!” cried the sergeant. “Get ready now, boys. The wind is in our favor, and you may be able to get some pictures of them feeding.”