The bloody track could be followed for some distance;
in fact, in one place the thorny roots of the remarkable _pachiuba_
palm-tree, the roots that the women here use for kitchen graters,
had torn off a bunch of long, beautiful hair from the sides of the
jaguar, which very likely was weak and was dragging itself to some
cluster of trees where it could be safe, or else to find a point of
vantage to fall upon its pursuers.
We searched for some time. The forest was growing dark, and the many
noises of the night began. First came the yelping of the toucan, which
sounded like the carefree yap-yap of some clumsy little pup. Then
came the chattering of the night monkeys and the croaking of the
thousands of frogs that hide in the swamps. And still no traces of the
jaguar. Again we separated. The dog had run home utterly scared. Now
and then we would whistle so as not to lose track of each other. I
regretted that I had been so careless as to leave my ammunition
at home, as it might happen that the wounded and enraged cat would
spring at us from some dark cluster of branches, and then a machete
would hardly be an adequate weapon.
We searched for over an hour until it was pitch dark, but, sad to
relate, we never found that jaguar.
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