Next morning, we were finishing breakfast when one of the helpers said: "Look, Mr. Rivers, up there!"
He pointed along the shore line. There were six big crested duckbill, feeding in the shallows. They were the kind called Parasaurolophus, with a long spike sticking out the back of their heads and a web of skin connecting this with the back of their necks.
"Keep your voices down!" I said. The duckbill, like the other ornithopods, are wary beasts because they have neither armor nor weapons. They feed on the margins of lakes and swamps, and when a gorgosaur rushes out of the trees they plunge into deep water and swim off. Then when Phobosuchus, the super-crocodile, goes for them in the water, they flee to the land. A hectic sort of life, what?
Holtzinger said: "Uh — Reggie! I've been thinking over what you said about ceratopsian heads. If I could get one of those yonder, I'd be satisfied. It would look big enough in my house, wouldn't it?"
"I'm sure of it, old boy," I said. "Now look here. We could detour to come out on the shore near here, but we should have to plow through half a mile of muck and brush, and they'd hear us coming. Or we can creep up to the north end of this sandspit, from which it's three or four hundred yards — a long shot but not impossible. Think you could do it?"
"Hm," said Holtzinger. "With my 'scope sight and a sitting position — okay, I'll try it."
"You stay here, Court," I said to James. "This is Augie's head, and I don't want any argument over your having fired first."
James grunted while Holtzinger clamped his 'scope to his rifle. We crouched our way up the spit, keeping the sand ridge between us and the duckbill. When we got to the end, where there was no more cover, we crept along on hands and knees, moving slowly. If you move slowly enough, directly towards or away from a dinosaur, it probably won't notice you.
The duckbill continued to grub about on all fours, every few seconds rising to look round. Holtzinger eased himself into the sitting position, cocked his piece, and aimed through his 'scope. And then —
Bang! bang! went a big rifle back at the camp.
Holtzinger jumped. The duckbill jerked their heads up and leaped for the deep water, splashing like mad. Holtzinger fired once and missed. I took one shot at the last duckbill before it vanished, too, but missed. The .600 isn't built for long ranges.
Holtzinger and I started back towards the camp, for it had struck us that our party might be in theropod trouble.
What had happened was that a big sauropod had wandered down past the camp under water, feeding as it went. Now, the water shoaled about a hundred yards offshore from our spit, halfway over to the swamp on the other side. The sauropod had ambled up the slope until its body was almost all out of water, weaving its head from side to side and looking for anything green to gobble. This is a species of Alamosaurus, which looks much like the well-known Brontosaurus except that it's bigger.
When I came in sight of the camp, the sauropod was turning round to go back the way it had come, making horrid groans. By the time we reached the camp, it had disappeared into deep water, all but its head and twenty feet of neck, which wove about for some time before they vanished into the haze.
When we came up to the camp, James was arguing with the Raja. Holtzinger burst out:
"You crummy bastard! That's the second time you've spoiled my shots."
"Don't be a fool," said James. "I couldn't let him wander into the camp and stamp everything flat."
"There was no danger of that," said the Raja. "You can see the water is deep offshore. It's just that our trigger-happee Mr. James cannot see any animal without shooting."
I added: "If it did get close, all you needed to do was throw a stick of firewood at it. They're perfectly harmless."
This wasn't strictly true. When the Comte de Lautrec ran after one for a close shot, the sauropod looked back at him, gave a flick of its tail, and took off the Comte's head as neatly as if he'd been axed in the tower. But, as a rule, they're inoffensive enough.
"How was I to know?" yelled James, turning purple. "You're all against me. What the hell are we on this miserable trip for, except to shoot things? Call yourselves hunters, but I'm the only one who hits anything!"
I got pretty wrothy and said he was just an excitable young skite with more money than brains, whom I should never have brought along.
"If that's how you feel," he said, "give me a burro and some food, and I'll go back to the base by myself. I won't pollute your pure air with my presence!"
"Don't be a bigger ass than you can help," I said. "What you propose is quite impossible."
"Then I'll go alone!" He grabbed his knapsack, thrust a couple of tins of beans and an opener into it, and started off with his rifle.
Beauregard Black spoke up: "Mr. Rivers, we cain't let him go off like that. He'll git lost and starve, or be et by a theropod."
"I'll fetch him back," said the Raja, and started after the runaway.
He caught up with James as the latter was disappearing into the cycads. We could see them arguing and waving their hands in the distance. After a while, they started back with arms around each other's necks like old school pals.
This shows the trouble we get into if we make mistakes in planning such a do. Having once got back in time, we had to make the best of our bargain.
I don't want to give the impression, however, that Courtney James was nothing but a pain in the rump. He had good points. He got over these rows quickly and next day would be as cheerful as ever. He was helpful with the general work of the camp, at least when he felt like it. He sang well and had an endless fund of dirty stories to keep us amused.
We stayed two more days at that camp. We saw crocodile, the small kind, and plenty of sauropod — as many as five at once — but no more duckbill. Nor any of those fifty-foot super-crocodiles.
So, on the first of May, we broke camp and headed north towards the Janpur Hills. My sahibs were beginning to harden up and were getting impatient. We'd been in the Cretaceous a week, and no trophies.
We saw nothing to speak of on the next leg, save a glimpse of a gorgosaur out of range and some tracks indicating a whopping big iguanodont, twenty-five or thirty feet high. We pitched camp at the base of the hills.
We'd finished off the bonehead, so the first thing was to shoot fresh meat. With an eye to trophies, too, of course. We got ready the morning of the third, and I told James:
"See here, old boy, no more of your tricks. The Raja will tell you when to shoot."
"Uh-huh, I get you," he said, meek as Moses.
We marched off, the four of us, into the foothills. There was a good chance of getting Holtzinger his ceratopsian. We'd seen a couple on the way up, but mere calves without decent horns.
As it was hot and sticky, we were soon panting and sweating. We'd hiked and scrambled all morning without seeing a thing except lizards, when I picked up the smell of carrion. I stopped the party and sniffed. We were in an open glade cut up by those little dry nullahs. The nullahs ran together into a couple of deeper gorges that cut through a slight depression choked with denser growth, cycad and screw pine. When I listened, I heard the thrum of carrion flies.