The Cliff Climbers<br />A Sequel to "The Plant Hunters" by Mayne Reid (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📖

With feelings of sad and bitter disappointment did our adventurers turn their backs upon these ladders—that had once more deluded them—and make their way towards the hut.

As upon the former occasion, they walked with slow steps and downcast mien. Fritz, by his slouching gait and drooped tail, showed that he shared the general despondency.

They had arrived nearly at the hut, before any of the three thought of speaking; when the sight of that rude homestead, to which they had so often fancied themselves on the eve of bidding farewell—and to which as often had they been compelled to return—suggested a theme to Karl: causing him to break silence as they advanced towards the doorway.

“Our true friend,” said he, pointing to the hovel, “a friend, when all else fails us. Rough it is—like many a friend that is nevertheless worthy. I begin to like its honest look, and feel regard for it as one should for a home.”

Caspar said nothing in reply. He only sighed. The young chamois-hunter of the Bavarian Alps thought of another home—far away towards the setting sun; and, so long as that thought was in his mind, he could never reconcile himself to a forced residence in the Himalayas.

The thoughts of Ossaroo were equally absent from that spot. He was thinking of a bamboo hut by the borders of some crystal stream, overshadowed by palms and other tropical trees. He was thinking still more of rice curry and chutnee; but above all, of his beloved “betel,” for which the “bang” of the cannabis sativa was but a poor substitute.

But Caspar had another thought in his mind; one which proved that he had not yet abandoned all hope of returning to the home of his nativity; and, after they had finished eating their supper of broiled venison, he gave utterance to it.

He had not volunteered to break the silence. It was done in obedience to a request of Karl who, having noticed the abstracted air of his brother, had asked for an explanation.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Caspar, “ever since the eagle has escaped us, of another bird I know something about—one that might perform the service we want quite as well, if not better, than a bearcoot.”

“Another bird!” inquired Karl; “of what bird are you speaking? Do you mean one of those Brahminy geese upon the lake? We might catch one alive, it is true; but let me tell you, brother, that their wings are constructed just strong enough to carry their own ponderous bodies; and if you added another pound or two, by tying a cord to their legs, they could no more mount out of this valley than we can. No—no. I fancy we may as well give up that idea. There’s no bird but an eagle with wing strong enough to do what you wish.”

“The bird I was thinking of,” rejoined Caspar, “is of the same genus as the eagle. I believe that’s correctly scientific language. Isn’t it, my Buffon of a brother? Ha! ha! Well, shall I name it? Surely, you have already divined the sort of bird to which I allude?”

“No, indeed,” replied Karl. “There are no other birds in this valley of the same genus as the eagle—except hawks; and according to the closet naturalists, they are not of the same genus—only of the same family. If you mean a hawk, there are several species in this place; but the largest of them could not carry anything over the cliff heavier than a string of twine. See, there’s a brace of them now!” continued Karl, pointing to two birds that were circling in the air, some twenty yards overhead. “‘Churk’ falcons they are called. They are the largest of the Himalayan hawks. Are these your birds, brother?”

“A couple of kites, are they not?” interrogated Caspar, turning his eyes upward, and regarding the two winged creatures circling above, and quartering the air as if in search of prey.

“Yes,” answered the naturalist, “they are of that species; and, correctly described, of the same genus as the eagles. You don’t mean them, I suppose?”

“No—not exactly,” replied Caspar, in a drawling tone, and smiling significantly as he spoke; “but if they be kites—Ho! what now?” exclaimed the speaker, his train of thought, as well as speech, suddenly interrupted by a movement on the part of the falcons. “What the mischief are the birds about? As I live, they seem to be making an attack upon Fritz! Surely they don’t suppose they have the strength to do any damage to our brave old dog?”

As Caspar spoke, the two falcons were seen suddenly to descend—from the elevation at which they had been soaring—and then sweep in quick short circles around the head of the Bavarian boar-hound—where he squatted on the ground, near a little copse, some twenty yards from the hut.

“Perhaps their nest is there—in the copse?” suggested Karl; “That’s why they are angry with the dog: for angry they certainly appear to be.”

So any one might have reasoned, from the behaviour of the birds, as they continued their attack upon the dog—now rising some feet above him, and then darting downward in a sort of parabolic curve—at each swoop drawing nearer and nearer, until the tips of their wings were almost flapped in his face. These movements were not made in silence: for the falcons, as they flew, kept uttering their shrill cries—that sounded like the voice of a pair of angry vixens.

“Their young must be near?” suggested Karl.

“No, sahib,” said Ossaroo, “no nest—no chickee. Fritz he hab suppa—de piece ob meat ob da ibex. Churk wantee take de dog suppa away.”

“Oh! Fritz is eating something, is he?” said Caspar. “That explains it then. How very stupid of these birds, to fancy they could steal his supper from our valiant Fritz: more especially since he seems to relish it so much himself! Why he takes no notice of them!”

It was quite true that Fritz, up to this time, had scarcely noticed the brace of winged assailants; and their hostile demonstrations had only drawn from him an occasional “yir.” As they swooped nearer, however, and the tips of their wings were “wopped” into his very eyes, the thing was growing unbearable; and Fritz began to lose temper. His “yirs” became more frequent; and once or twice he rose from his squatting attitude, and made a snap at the feathers that were nearest.

For more than five minutes this curious play was kept up between the boar-hound and the birds; and then the episode was brought to a somewhat singular—and in Fritz’s estimation, no doubt—a very unpleasant termination.

From the first commencement of their attack, the two falcons had followed a separate course of action. One appeared to make all its approaches from the front; while the other confined its attacks exclusively to Fritz’s rear. In consequence of these tactics on the part of his assailants, the dog was compelled to defend himself both before and behind: and to do this, it became necessary for him to look “two ways at once.” Now, he would snarl and snap at the assailant in front—anon, he must sieve himself round, and in like manner menace the more cowardly “churk” that