Baderoon laughed merrily and set off into the jungle without a word. By some way known only to himself he would cover those thirty miles that day, threading alone through the trackless jungle. By noon next day a war party of the Outanatas would be halfway back to them, thirsting for a foray on their ancient enemies, the pygmies--with the powerful aid of the man who called down the lightnings--or the curator was no judge of human nature! After Baderoon had gone, they studied the mountains and valleys to the south for some time, planning a route. “That big sugar loaf to the northeast looks familiar to me, Nick,” said the curator. “Don’t you remember it, from our banyan tree outlook?” They got out the map, and presently located it from bearings taken on the map from their position on Red Mountain. Once on that sugar loaf, it would be easy to locate the bald knob above Cassowary Camp. He pointed out the shoulder to Sadok. “We go there,” he explained. “You stop ’long front. You see black man, make’m call like red lory, two time, and come back.” Sadok comprehended quickly, and with a white flash of his teeth led on, his sumpitan balanced in his hands for instant use, and so they set out. In two hours they had reached the shoulder, some six miles through the jungle, and were cautiously reconnoitering for a lookout. After some climbing, a ledge was found that rose over the summits of the trees below. They wormed up it and lay flat in the grass on its edge, spying out the country with their glasses. Over to the east rose the cone of the old volcano, with the pygmy village on it, the girls’ tree huts visible like white specks in the sunlit clearing. Beyond that was the mountain with the great banyan tree on its north shoulder, and beyond that again in the blue distance, about twelve miles off, the bald knob above Cassowary Camp. But it was the green jungle below them that they searched most carefully. The view below was not reassuring. The haze of at least three fires rose above the trees at widely different points. Allowing forty men to each war party, there would be over a hundred of the pygmy warriors outlying between them and their home base. “We’ll stay right here, boys, until the rain--and then, by George! we’ll try to push through them during the storm!” declared the curator, with sudden resolution. “It’ll be pitch black for at least two hours after that. How’s the ammunition, fellows?” “I’ve only got twelve cartridges left, sir,” said Nicky, lugubriously, “and Dwight has two clips, and then he’s through.” “Well, I’ve only got four shells, myself,” said the curator, cheerfully. “Two of them are thirty-yard close-ups. We’ll have to husband ammunition for a possible rush, and depend on Sadok. You got’m plenty dart, Sadok?” he asked. The Dyak shook his head and opened the cover of his bamboo quiver. “Poison him all gone, too!” he announced.