How Teddy Roosevelt Slew the Last Mighty T-Rex Read Online Free PDF

steps in the slick mud and Teddy grabbed his saddle to regain his balance. Roosevelt reasoned sadly that his loyal beast, so severely weakened by the poor feed and strenuous journey, would not survive a fortnight after reaching their goal. Such was the fragility of life in this harsh and deadly country, he concluded.
    As the team crossed a small brook, Roosevelt noticed a frail mule slurping darkened water from a stagnant pool. The pathetic creature glanced up with brown eyes set upon the travelers, apparently not able to gather enough strength to bolt away. Teddy shook his head. Three oxen carcasses littered the earth beside the shaky mule. Two of the beasts appeared to be hurriedly butchered while the other animal seemed to have simply collapsed. Huge black birds pecked relentlessly at the remains. Teddy noticed the mule’s scrawny legs quiver as if awaiting death’s sweet escape.
    Roosevelt raised his hand and the mule procession halted. Teddy Roosevelt climbed to the ground and stroked the dying creature’s snout. Roosevelt had seen this sight far too many times over the past month—castoffs from Captain Amilcar’s advance supply train that could no longer pull their weight—the truly innocent casualties of the expedition. Roosevelt turned to Rondon, asking gently, “Do you suppose we can spare one shell?”
    Colonel Rondon grabbed hold of his reins attempting to steady his anxious mule. He leaned forward and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, senhor Colonel, but bullets are a precious commodity. We had best reserve what we can for senhor Cherrie’s specimens and to defend against large predators and unfriendly natives.”
    Roosevelt turned back to the dying mule and nodded in inevitable agreement.
    Rondon sighed deeply. He stroked his chin and turned rearward. “Paishon!”
    Paishon hustled forward, brandishing his knife in one swift motion.
    “No,” Rondon ordered suddenly. “ Eu quero Martin.”
    Paishon stopped in his tracks. He eyeballed Colonel Rondon and scratched his head.
    Lieutenant Martin stepped forward without a heartbeat’s hesitation. He dug his roughened toes into the spongy earth, tugging awkwardly on his newly acquired attire—shirt and trousers purchased by Roosevelt from a telegraph worker at Bonifácio. He accepted Paishon’s knife with a quick nod, and then strode with head held high in classic British fashion directly to Roosevelt and the sick mule. “Sir,” he said, positioning the knife’s blade against the mule’s brain.
    Roosevelt glanced away just in time to miss the fatal jab. The mule released a sickening yelp and dropped to the ground. A pool of expanding red formed beneath Roosevelt’s boots. Rondon’s dog Lobo sniffed the carnage before turning away and whimpering. Martin bent to the stream and nonchalantly swished the blood from Paishon’s blade. Without a word, the Englishman marched back to Paishon and returned the knife.
    Roosevelt solemnly returned to his own mule and exchanged a quick glance with the expressionless Rondon. He pondered for a moment about the myriad differences between Rondon and his own style of command, and yet, at least in this one area, they were in complete and total agreement. Orders must be obeyed without question, and all new men under one’s command should be thoroughly tested.
    With an abrupt tug on his reins, Colonel Rondon turned and urged his beast forward. And, with a leg-up from Paishon, Roosevelt hoisted himself upon his saddle and dutifully followed the taciturn Brazilian commander down the path.
     
    By early evening and nearly seven backbreaking miles from the Bonifácio station, Rondon’s and Roosevelt’s mule train finally arrived at a modest campsite set beside a small brook littered with tents and a variety of pack animals. Colonel Rondon pulled his mule alongside Roosevelt’s beast. “We have nicknamed this area Sete de Setembro ,” Rondon said. “This brook flows directly into the Dúvida, or the River of Doubt,