After
walking for nearly half an hour, we slowed down a little and Francisco
looked around at the trees and said that he thought we were on the
spot where he had heard the growlings of the jaguar. It was nearing
half-past five and the sun was low so we launched ourselves into the
thicket towards the spot where the jaguar had been killed.
We advanced rapidly; then slower and slower. The great dog at first had
been very brave, but the closer we came to the spot we were looking
for, the more timid the dog became, until it uttered a fearful yell
of fright, and with its tail between its legs slunk back. There was
nothing to do but to leave the contemptible brute alone with its fear,
so we pushed ahead. Suddenly we came to the place, but there was no
jaguar. There were plenty of evidences of the struggle. The mutilated
body of a beautiful marsh-deer was lying on the moist ground, pieces of
fur and flesh were scattered around, and the blood had even spurted on
the surrounding leaves and branches. Francisco had wounded the jaguar,
no doubt--at least he said so, but plainly he had not killed it nor
disabled it to such extent that it had remained on the spot.
We commenced searching in the underbrush, for it was evident it could
not be far off.
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