Chapter VIII: The Yellow Snake's Teeth

Dorn looked at the Citadel and all connected with it through the big, round eyes of a young boy. Nothing would do but his fair-haired American cousin, Doris, must climb all those stone steps leading up to the top of the Citadel, there to peer down into the dark hole that had been Johnny's prison and from which he had mysteriously vanished.

Doris exclaimed and shrank back from the darkness of the place. Then seized with a true girl's impulse, she took a fishing line and hook from her knicker pocket and angled until she drew Johnny's handkerchief up from those forbidding depths.

"What's to be learned from that?" Dorn asked.

"Probably nothing," replied Doris. "Anyway I have his handkerchief to remember him by if he is never seen again, haven't I?"

"Remember him? You've never seen him."

"But I can remember him all the same."

This point Dorn did not care to discuss. So they moved onward over the moss grown roof of the ancient fortress until they stood upon the exact spot at which the shadowy giant of the night before had appeared.

"He stood right here," said Dorn in an awed tone. "He moved right along there. And the little fellow, the bearer of the brass telescope, followed after."

Doris had heard the story of the mysterious walking giant twice before, but to be standing at the very spot where the vision had appeared gave her an added thrill.

The sun was setting. Already half the world was in shadows. As she stood there she found her knees trembling.

"Let's get away from here." She moved forward unsteadily.

Behind her sounded the chattering of teeth mingled with mumbled whisperings.

"Nieta," she said, "what in the world are you doing?"

"She is talking to her teeth," whispered Dorn.

"Her teeth!" The girl's tone showed unfeigned amazement.

"Sure. Her snake's teeth."

"Snake--"

"You don't understand," said her cousin. "Nieta believes in the power of voodoo charms. Her uncle, who is now dead, left her a very ancient charm. She wears it round her neck in a leather sack. It is the teeth of a yellow snake killed at the back of a cave at high tide when the moon was dark. It has great power, so they say. She is afraid now, so she is asking the spirit of the yellow snake for protection."

"Oh!" Doris shuddered. "I'd rather trust the ghost of that old emperor--if there truly is a ghost."

"We saw him--Pompee and I." Dorn's voice carried conviction.

"But look!" said Doris, pointing to a spot where a patch of green moss had been torn up. "There's a donkey's track."

"Can't be," said Dorn. "No donkey has been here. Think of his coming up those steps!"

"But he has," said Doris. "Look! There's another footprint. And over there's another."

"A fresh mystery," said Dorn, acknowledging the proof.

"But we must be getting down. Don't want to be caught up here in the dark."

"No--o," said Doris. "We do not."

But we must not forget Curlie Carson and the strange girl who drummed so mysteriously in the night upon a native drum.

The show which Curlie had thought ended when the strange dark-haired girl stepped from the greensward stage to his corner of hiding was continued and that almost at once. Curlie found time to note only one further fact. Crouching close beside the girl was an unusually large dog.

"Hate to mix with him," he thought.

The next instant his attention was drawn back to the narrow stretch of green. Figures were darting back and forth across the narrow clearing.

"Those can't be wild creatures," Curlie told himself. "There are none in the island like that. They're natives. And the girl has called them with the drum. What can they be doing at such an hour in such a place?"

He dared not move. He studied the girl. She seemed frightened, about to flee; yet she remained there motionless. As they crouched there a fourth, a fifth, sixth, eighth, tenth, twelfth figure passed across the star-lit clearing.

In time he lost much of his fear. The natives were some distance away. There was the girl and her dog. The girl might need protection. He doubted this, and curiosity came to take the place of fear. So he lingered.

The thing he was about to witness might seem to belong to those long lost days on the Hudson that Washington Irving is so fond of writing about. Be that as it may the strange panorama of that hour will never pass from his memory.

Somewhere in the dark, a drum was struck. At the same instant a dusky figure darted to the center of the spot of ground before him and as if by magic flames leaped up. After that came the steady red glow of a slow fire.

Again the drum, again and yet again. Figures appeared. They began leaping about the fire. Like black ghosts they were now within the circle of light and now lost within the shadows.

"Why did they come to this spot?" he asked himself. "There are a thousand grass grown clearings in the hills."

There could be but one answer to this. The girl had drummed. Had she meant them to come? If so, then why had she hidden? Why did she seem so much afraid?

At once his mind was filled with pictures of the past. All the sad and tragic history of the island of Haiti, all the bright days, too, passed before his mind's eye.

The brief, bright, glorious days of the French Colony, bright for a few, dark for many slaves, came and went.

The drum was beating now. Rolling, throbbing, singing, if a drum may be said to sing, it was telling out the story of the uprising of the natives and the slaves; telling how just such a goat's head drum had sent out the signals, how another, another and yet a hundred others had taken up the notes until all the island heard. Down through all the bright and bitter years, of rebellion, war, slavery and freedom, the drums had played their part.

"But now?" he thought as the drumming rose louder and the dancers leaped in wilder circles, "now what can they want? It is their land. This is a republic. They are free. True, there are the Marines. But they are the servants of this nation as well as our own. They are here to help the people find their way out." There came a pause in his thoughts. There had been rumors of intrigue against the present government. In every land there are the dissatisfied ones, especially in a small republic.

"And this girl, this American girl," he thought, "has called them together for this." The thing seemed unbelievable, yet had he not seen her drumming the signal call?

His thoughts broke short off. From before him there had sounded a shrill whisper.

"If only we could get their goat."

He heard the words plainly but could not believe his ears. The words had come from the girl's lips. She had discovered him and had not cried out in fright. What a truly remarkable girl!

"If only we could get their goat," she repeated, for all the world as if she had known him always, and as if he should understand what she meant.

Once more Curlie's heart leaped. Who was this strange girl? What could she mean?

For the answer to this second question, he had not long to wait.

"They've got a goat, a very black goat." The girl's whisper was low but distinct. "They're going to sacrifice it. It's a voodoo custom, you know. There are always the witch doctors to lead them on. And besides, just now there is Pluto. Pluto is a big, bad man, a sort of leader, who wants money and power. He thinks he can drive the Marines away and overturn the government. He will make these people mad with wild dances. Then _Papa Lou_ will sacrifice the black goat which they think will bring them success."

"We can't get their goat." Curlie whispered.

"There may be a rebellion," the girl urged. "Lives may be lost. If only we could somehow break up the meeting; the meeting I must have called without meaning to. If only we could!"

"There's the dog," suggested Curlie.

"Yes," said the girl. "He is my protector. He's very good. He won't hurt you. But I wouldn't think of sicking him on. He'd be killed."

For a moment, save for the mad tum-tum of the drum, there was silence. Then Curlie, leaning close, asked in a low tone:

"Will he howl?"

"Who?"

"Your dog. Can you make him howl?"

"Why yes, I think so."

"Make him howl then."

"Why?"

"Make him howl. There's no time for explaining."

"Be ready to fly," Curlie added. "Follow me. I know a secret way down the mountain."

With trembling fingers the girl drew a small harmonica from her pocket. Then she touched the dog who had all this time stood tense at her side.

"Now, Leo, old boy," she whispered hoarsely as the throb of the drum rose louder and a chanted song rose and fell like the wild waves of the sea. "Now Leo, do your bit."

She put the tiny musical instrument to her lips and sent forth a piercing discordant screech.

The next instant Leo stood on his haunches and pointing his nose to the stars let out such a mournful wail as only a tropical dog knows.

The effect was electrical. With a loud _bam_, the drum beats ceased. The song broke off short. For ten seconds silence, deep and ominous, hung over the jungle. Then again came that unearthly screech and the dog's answering wail.

This last was too much. Came the sound of rushing through the brush, the bleating of a black goat being dragged over the rough trail by his masters. All this grew indistinct in the night. Then again silence.

"There won't be any rebellion now," said Curlie. "At least not right away. They thought it was the _Loupe Garoe_. That is a bad sign."

"The _Loupe Garoe_?" said the girl.

"Yes," said Curlie. "But we'd better be getting down. Some of them might suspect. It wouldn't be nice to be found here."

"These natives," Curlie said as they crept along down a steep trail, "as you know of course, are very superstitious. It's a pity. One who is afraid of many things is never happy. Voodooism is really a sort of Devil worship.

"They are afraid to offend the _Mama Lou_ and the _Papa Lou_, who are witch doctors. But most of all they are afraid of the _Loupe Garoe_, who doesn't exist at all, except in their imaginations. When your dog howled they thought him the _Loupe Garoe_ who, so they believe, is half wolf and half man. He carries off little children and when he is about it is a very bad sign."

"I have heard all that," said the girl, "but I didn't think of it in the way you did. You are a wise one. I thank you.

"If only we could get their goat," she said after a time. "Goats that are all black are hard to find and according to their superstitious notions, only an all black goat will suffice for a sacrifice before some desperate undertaking."

In a moment of stress and great danger, perfect strangers become comrades for the hour. Once the danger is passed they more often than not become strangers once more. It was so with Curlie and the girl, or so it seemed to Curlie. He had hoped she would tell him who she was and where she lived. She did not. She told him nothing.

One thing he did not need to be told. They had not been scouting down the trail for a half hour before he realized that she needed no directing from him. She was far better acquainted with the jungle than he. Once when he hesitated at a forking of the way, she forged straight on. At another time she gripped his arm just in time to save him from a dangerous fall. At this time he learned one more fact; slender girl that she was, there was power in her good right arm. Hers was the grip of a man.

"I go this way," she said quite suddenly when, after an hour of almost unbroken silence, they came to a fork in the trail.

Curlie found himself sorely tempted to say, "So do I." But this he knew would be an untruth.

Since he valued truth and above all prized this girl's opinion, he said, "I go up."

"All right. Good night, and thank you." He found his hand caught for a second in a firm clasp. The next instant she was gone; swallowed up by the night.

"That's a queer girl; but a real one," he told himself as he toiled up the trail. "Wonder why she beat out those signals on the drum if she didn't want those natives to meet? Who is she? Where's her home? Will we meet again?" He hoped so. Yet in this strange old world one never could tell.

The night was well spent. His eyes were heavy with sleep. At this elevation there were no flying pests. The trail was still long. It would be there in the morning.

Selecting a gently sloping bank beneath a tropical oak, he gathered moss from low hanging branches to form a pillow. He then threw himself upon the earth, closed his eyes and fell asleep.