Hope had almost died in the boys' hearts at the scene they had witnessed by means of powers that seemed incredible to them, but which several well known travelers have told us are not uncommon among certain natives of West Africa. But old Sikaso was destined to raise their hopes.
"We will save Four-Eyes and the Red-Headed one," he exclaimed suddenly.
"But how?" chorused the amazed three.
"In the ship that like the bird can cleave the air we will fly to them," was the astonishing reply.
"But we do not know where they are," objected Harry.
"I do," was the quiet response.
"What?"
"Say that again!"
"Well, I'll be hornswoggled!"
These exclamations came from each of the three in turn.
"They are on the banks of a river which I know well. In the smoke I recognized it. Few men have ever navigated the Tunnel of Death and came out to tell the tale, but your great white Fetish must have looked after them."
"You know the river?"
"Well do I know it white boy," replied the Krooman. "In the days when my limbs were supple I have hunted and fished there with others of my tribe."
"You can guide us to it?"
"I can."
"When?"
"As soon as it is dawn."
"How far is it from here?"
"Not more than a hundred and fifty miles."
Frank held up a moistened finger. The air was as calm as a mill-pond.
"We can make that distance in a little more than four hours," he announced.
It was Sikaso's turn to be astonished.
"Of a truth the magic of the white man is not as the magic of the black man, but it is good," he said; "yes, it is good. In four hours. That is indeed mighty magic."
"Who can the old man be whom we saw with them?" asked Harry eagerly, his mind no longer containing an ounce of skepticism to the marvels he had seen.
"I have no idea," rejoined Frank, "but he was white evidently."
"I've seen his picture some place, sometime—or some chap that looked a powerful sight like him, only younger," said Ben, who doubtless had a vague recollection of the once widely distributed photographs of the missing explorer Desmond.
"I am afraid that he was seriously ill, or even dying, from the last glimpse we had of him," said Frank gravely.
"Why could you not show us more smoke pictures Sikaso?" asked Harry eagerly.
"I have no more of the powder left," replied the old Krooman bending over his beloved axe and feeling the edge with a critical thumb. "Moreover, the smoke does not reveal the future."
There was, naturally enough, no thought of sleep that night, and so excited were the boys that they did not even feel the want of it. A huge shallow pit was dug back in the forest and the ivory taken from the chassis of the aeroplane and the aerial express wagon cached there and leaves and grass strewn over the place to make it as inconspicuous as possible. This was done before the aeroplane was got in readiness for the dash to the rescue.
"For," said Frank, "old Muley-Hassan, when he finds we have overreached him, may take a fancy to come back and try to wipe us out."
"Muley-Hassan will not fight with the few men he has left," sagely remarked old Sikaso; "when he has many he is brave as a lion, but when his followers are few he fights like the fox with wits against wits and few are his match for cunning."
As the day-life of the jungle—which has a nightlife as well as a daylight one—as the day-life of the forest began with the first ghostly gray of the dawn the boys swallowed a hasty meal, though they were almost too excited to eat in spite of Ben Stubbs' insistence that they take some nourishment. At the old sailor's suggestion, too, the car of the Golden Eagle II was packed with food for the castaways, who surely, from the latest glimpse they had had of them, must be in dire straits.
These preparations completed, they clambered into the car of the air-ship and with Frank at the wheel and the old Krooman at his elbow to direct the course they were to take, they left the ground and were soon flying through a breathless environment at sixty miles an hour.
The Golden Eagle II was on her way to the rescue.
"It is the end."
These words came from the feeble lips of Mr. Desmond as he lay beneath a rough screen of leaves and branches which the boys had erected to keep the heat of the African day from the dying man—for that he was dying they sadly realized.
The excitement of their flight and the peril of the subterranean river had been too much for the enfeebled frame and George Desmond's troubled soul was on its way to more peaceful rest than he had known in many years.
"Is there nothing we can do for you, sir?" asked Billy eagerly, bending over the dying man and taking his hand-which, despite the heat, was as cold as ice, between his.
"Nothing," whispered Desmond faintly, and then, with a supreme effort, he spoke once more.
"My papers—the history of the Flying Men."
He feebly indicated that he wished Billy to take them from his shirt.
The young reporter swiftly drew out the yellowed manuscript and reverently laid it before the fast-fading eyes. A faint smile overspread the aged man's careworn face.
"I commend them to your care," he said, as though every word now cost him an effort. "You have told me you are a newspaper reporter—you will see that they are given to the world?"
Billy once more taking the fast passing man's hand promised to fulfill this sacred trust.
"Read me the dedication," was the next whispered request of George Desmond.
In a trembling voice Billy read the words inscribed on the first page of the yellowed manuscript.
"To my dear wife Mary this volume is dedicated by her affectionate husband the Author."
"I never thought when I wrote those words I should die like this," exclaimed the dying man, "but it was to be. I always hoped that some day I would escape; but now that I have won freedom, rest seems to mean more to me than all else beside."
The tears welled into the eyes of both boys as with a resigned sigh George Desmond composed himself as if to sleep.
It was about five minutes later, and Billy still held the old man's hand, when the long-lost explorer raised himself on his elbow and shading his eyes with his trembling hand gazed in front of him as if he saw a vision.
"Mary—" he cried in a loud voice and fell back dead.
And so died George Desmond, the famous African traveler, almost within sight of the civilization to which he had so long dreamed of returning.
The shocked and grieved boys had hardly recovered their composure after this tragic termination of a brave man's life when Lathrop, who had been gazing despairingly about him gave a great shout.
The next minute it was echoed by Billy.
Half mad with joy the boys embraced each other and shook hands till it seemed they would fall off, and performed a dozen mad antics.
For, winging its way steadily toward them, though still at a great distance, was an aeroplane that they had no difficulty in recognizing at once as the Golden Eagle II.
There is no need to detail the scene that ensued when, fifteen minutes later, the great air-craft settled down on the river bank and the ravenous boys—who had long since exhausted the provisions in the boat—had been fed, and plied with questions till they had to stop eating to talk and stop talking to eat, at short intervals.
To the great joy of old Sikaso, who regarded it as a personal vindication of his powers, every detail of the trip through the subterranean river and the subsequent peril into which they had fallen was substantiated by Billy and Lathrop as having occurred exactly as it did in the smoke pictures. But there was a note of sadness amid all their joy in the death of the old explorer. On the river bank they dug a grave and marked it with a pile of rocks and there the remains of George Desmond rest for all time in the country to whose exploration he gave his life.
The Golden Eagle II had to make two trips between the river camp and the outlet of the subterranean river as, stout craft though she was, her gasoline supply was getting so low that Frank did not dare to run her at top speed and consequently she would not carry more than three passengers. By nightfall, however, the reunited adventurers were all seated about their campfire and talking and retelling all that had happened to each other during their separation.
Their conversation was interrupted by a strange happening.
The puff-puff of the steam launch that had brought them tip the river was suddenly heard and as she drew alongside the steep bank a familiar figure stepped from her side into the bright moonlight.
Not one of the party that did not give a start of amazed surprise as in the newcomer they recognized:
Luther Barr, of New York!
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