But the leaf poultices did him good, and in a few days he was able to be about, though he was still a trifle stiff.  Of course the cavalcade had to halt in the woods, but they did not mind this as they had traveled well up to this time, and the enforced rest was appreciated.

“Well, do you feel able to move along?” asked Tom of Mr. Damon one morning, about a week later, for they were still in the “snake camp,” as they called it in memory of the big serpent.

“Oh, yes, I think so, Tom.  Where are you going?”

“I want to push on to the next village.  There I hope to get some line on giant land, and really I ought to begin making inquiries soon.  San Pedro and the others are wondering what our object is, for we haven’t collected any specimens of either flowers or animals, or the snake skin, and he thinks we are a sort of scientific expedition.”

“Well, let’s travel then.  I’m able.”

So they started off once more along the jungle and forest trail.  As San Pedro had predicted, they came upon evidences of a native village.  Scattered huts, made of plastered mud and grass, with thatched roofs of palm leaves, were met with, as they advanced, but none of the places seemed to be inhabited, though rude gardens around them showed that they had been the homes of natives up to recently.

“No one seems to be at home,” remarked Tom, when they had gone past perhaps half a dozen of these lonely huts.

“I wonder what can be the matter?” asked Ned.  “It looks as if they had gone off in a hurry, too.  Maybe there’s been some sort of epidemic.”

“No, no sickness,” said San Pedro.  “Natives no sick.”

“Bless my liver pill!” cried Mr. Damon, who was almost himself again.  “Then what is it?”

“Much fight, maybe.”

“Much fight?” repeated Tom.

“Yes, tribes at war.  Maybe natives go away so as not be killed.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the young inventor.  “That’s so.  I forgot about what Mr. Preston said.  There’s a native war going on around here.  Well, when we get to the town we can find out more about it, and steer clear of the two armies, if we have to.”

But as they went farther on, the evidences of a native war became more pronounced.  They passed several huts that had been burned, and the native mule drivers began showing signs of fear.

“I don’t like this,” murmured Tom to his chum.  “It looks bad.”

“What can you do?”

“Nothing, I guess.  We’ve got to keep on.  No use turning back now.  Maybe the two rival forces have annihilated each other, and there aren’t any fighters left.”

At that moment there arose a cry from some of the natives who, with the mules and their burdens, had pressed on ahead.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Tom.

“Something’s happened!” gasped Ned.

“Bless my cartridge box!” cried Mr. Damon.

The three went forward and came to a little hill.  They looked down into a valley—­a valley that had sheltered a native village, but the village was no more.  It was but a heap of blackened and fire-scarred ruins, and there were still clouds of smoke arising from the grass huts, showing that the enemy had but recently made their assault on the place.