The Pathless Trail

by Arthur O. Friel

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE PASSING OF SCHWANDORF

  The three soldiers flung down their hot, empty guns.

  "Nothin' left but the gats and the steel," rumbled Tim. "Me, I'm goin'out and git some fresh air."

  With which he drew pistol and machete, leaped down, and lunged throughthe door. McKay bounded at his heels.

  "Merry! Rand! Stay here!" he commanded. Then he was outside, his pistolroaring in unison with Tim's.

  Knowlton and Rand looked at each other. The lieutenant fumbled hispistol from its holster, got it firmly in his left hand, slid down theembankment, and staggered out. Rand coolly walked over to Tim'sdiscarded gun, picked it up, and followed.

  Over at the other doorway the bushmen threw aside their useless guns anddrew their machetes. Jose, grinning like a death's-head, whirled thebush knife aloft and mockingly dared the Red Bones still fronting him tocome and take it from him. Pedro and Lourenco indulged in no suchbravado, but leaped like jaguars at their foes. Whereupon Jose,muttering a curse on them for getting the jump on him, dashed forwardwith furious abandon.

  Their pistols emptied, the Americans also drew machetes--all exceptRand, who had no weapon but the bulletless rifle--and waited. Fewunwounded Red Bones now were left; but among those few Schwandorf stilllived.

  "Schwandorf!" bellowed McKay. "You yellow cur--you _Schweinhund_! Comeand fight!"

  "Yeah!" taunted Tim. "The women and kids are inside. Come and git 'em!"

  Schwandorf came. He came not because he wanted to, however, for hisguns, too, were empty. He came because the Red Bones, sensing thechallenge and loathing the Blackbeard who had shielded himself so longamong them, threw him out bodily. They had no time to stand and watchwhat might happen to him, but they took time to cast him out where hemust stand on his own legs. Then, snarling, they resumed their nowhopeless battle against their encompassing executioners.

  For a moment the German stood glowering at McKay. Then, with a dramaticgesture, he threw aside his useless revolvers and advanced empty handed.

  "Man to man?" he growled.

  "Man to man!" echoed McKay, passing his pistol to Tim and sheathing hismachete. Fists clenched, he sprang forward.

  Schwandorf halted. His hands remained empty--until the captain waswithin eight feet of him. Then he leaped back, his machete jumped intohis fist, and its point stabbed for his antagonist's abdomen.

  An instantaneous side-step and twist of the body saved the captain fromevisceration. The blade ripped through breeches and shirt and scrapedthe skin. As Schwandorf yanked it back for another thrust McKay struckit away with one hand and, without drawing his own steel, jumped againat his assailant. An instant later the two blackbeards were clenched ina death grapple.

  Schwandorf found his long knife useless and dropped it. He strove for aback-breaking hold, but found it blocked. McKay, though an indifferentswordsman, was a formidable wrestler and fist fighter, and the German'sadvantage in weight was more than offset by the American's quickness andwiry strength. Science was thrown to the winds. A heaving, choking,wrenching man-fight it was, stumbling over bodies, each straining everymuscle, trying every hold to twist and break the other and batter himdown to death.

  Smashing fist blows brought blood dripping from their faces.Bone-wringing grips forced gasps from their lungs and superhuman spasmsof resistance from their outraged nerve centers. They fell across acorpse, rolled on the ground, throttled, kicked, struck, and tore.Finally, in a furious outburst of energy, the American fought his enemydown under him, clamped his body with iron knees, and crashed a terrificpunch squarely between the German's glaring eyes. Schwandorf went limp.

  At that instant a backward eddy of the battle surged over the pair. Themaniacal Red Bones, fighting to the last bitter drop of doom, found twowhite men under their feet. Screeching, snarling, they fell on them likewild beasts, tearing with tooth and nail. Their arrows were gone, theirdarts exhausted, and no spearman was among them; they fought withnature's weapons, while above them one lone clubman struggled to swingdown his lethal bludgeon without killing his fellows.

  McKay, wrenching his machete loose and gripping it with both hands, gotits point upward and jabbed blindly at the weight of flesh bearing himdown. Faintly to his ears came yells of rage and the impact ofblows--the battle roars of Tim and Knowlton, who with their macheteswere cleaving a way to their captain. But the beastly demons over himstill crushed him down on Schwandorf, smothering him under the burden ofbodies dead and alive. His stabs grew weak. Exhaustion and lack of airwere killing him more surely than the savages.

  Pedro, Lourenco, Jose and the inexplicable Rand came slashing andclubbing a path of their own to the beleaguered Scot--the Brazilianscutting straight ahead with deadly surety, the painted Peruvian choppingand thrusting with a fixed grin, Rand swinging the gun butt down on headafter head. From still another direction Yuara and his satellite cameboring in with spears snatched from dead hands. The three rescue partiesreached the squirming heap at almost the same moment. But Yuara was theone whose arrival counted most.

  In one last convulsive struggle McKay heaved himself up until he wasonce more on his knees. His head came out of the welter, his mouth wideand gulping for breath. The lone clubman grunted, swung his weapon high,and with all the power of his muscular body drove it down at thatupturned, unprotected face.

  With a mighty plunge Yuara threw himself over the captain. His spearsank into the stomach of the clubman. But the heavy wooden war hammerfell with crushing force. As the Red Bone collapsed with the spear headburied in his middle, his slayer also dropped under that terrible strokewith head mangled beyond recognition.

  Yuara, son of Rana, warrior of Suba, who owed his life to McKay's roughsurgery, had paid his debt.

  Under the impact of his body McKay also slumped forward, senseless.

  Over them now burst the bloodiest berserk battle of that bloody day. Thesoldiers, the bushmen, and the reclaimed Raposa, already smeared fromhead to foot with red stains from their own veins and those of foemen,went stark mad. Before their united ferocity the men of Umanuh droppedas if rolled under by an inexorable machine of war. Backward theyreeled, striving now to escape the red wall of cold steel surging atthem--only to fall under a fresh attack of ravening Mayorunas who camepouring in upon them from the sides. The last of the group lurchedheadless to the ground under a decapitating side-swing from the awfulclub of Monitaya himself.

  Then Knowlton, his lifeblood still draining slowly but surely awaythrough his wounded shoulder, pitched on his face and was still.

  "Back!" gasped Tim. "Git looey and cap out o' this! Here, you Raposy!Lend a hand!"

  The Raposa, his green eyes ablaze and his obdurate calmness totallygone, glared around as if seeking one more Red Bone to kill. Then, asTim heaved the lieutenant across his shoulders and went lunging acrosscontorted bodies toward the _malocas_, he ran back to the heap whereMcKay lay and dug him clear. Lourenco aided him in lifting the captain,and they bore him off after Knowlton.

  Pedro and Jose shoved the other bodies aside until they uncovered theprone figure of Schwandorf--a ghastly form dyed from hair to heels withthe blood of the cannibals whom he had led there. To all appearances hewas dead. Yet the Brazilian and the Peruvian looked keenly at him, thenat each other.

  "There is a saying, is there not, that the devil takes care of his own?"grinned Jose. "It would be sad if this man should yet live and escape.See! What is that tall Red Bone doing over yonder?"

  Pedro followed his pointing finger. He saw no such Red Bone as Jose hadmentioned. But when he looked back at Schwandorf he noticed somethingthat made him glance quickly at Jose once more.

  "Ah yes, Senor Schwandorf is truly dead," the Peruvian added, wiping hismachete carelessly on one bare leg. "Whether or not the devil takes careof his own, as I was saying, there is no doubt that _el Aleman_ now iswith the devil. So, since we can do nothing for him, let us look afterthe two North American senores."

  Pedro, with a grim smile, turned with him towar
d the tribal houses.There was nothing else for them to do, for the Mayorunas now weredispatching the last survivors of the attacking force. Before the pairentered the low doorway a long, triumphant yell burst from the hoarsethroats of the men of Monitaya. Of all the Red Bones who had swept insuch ghoulish glee into that clearing not one now remained alive.

  At that shout of victory and the entrance of the men to whoseprecautions and prowess they owed so much, the women flocked again intothe center of the _maloca_ and the children dived out through thetunnels to behold the battlefield. Though bullets and arrows had comethrough the doorway, those inside had escaped all injury by hugging theprotective earth embankment or taking refuge in the vacant shafts underthe walls. Now the older women, experienced in treatment of wounds,busied themselves with the white warriors, while the younger onesfetched water and pieces of isca--a natural styptic made by ants--ormade up pads of poultices of healing herbs.

  Tim, who had expected to play surgeon with his crude knowledge of firstaid, found himself not only relieved of his job, but being bathed andplastered with the others. He, Jose, Pedro, Lourenco, and even Rand weregashed by thrusts from broken spear hafts, bleeding from open bites,ripped by glancing sweeps of tooth-set clubs, bruised by fierceblows--minor injuries all, but such as might easily have resulted inblood poisoning unless given prompt attention. Later on they were to bethankful for those ministrations, but now they tolerated them onlybecause they could do nothing for the captain and the lieutenant.

  McKay and Knowlton were under the direct and capable treatment of thewives of the great chief. Of the two McKay looked by far the worse, butactually was in much better condition. From the waist up he was clawed,bitten, and bruised so badly that he was a fearsome spectacle; his leftarm was dislocated, three fingers of his right hand were broken, and hismuscles were so wrenched that for a week afterward he moved like acripple; but his present unconsciousness was largely due to exhaustionand partial asphyxiation. Knowlton, whose skin was comparativelyunmarked, but whose veins had continued to pour vital fluid from hisgaping bullet wound during his stubborn fight, now was badly weakened.But whatever could be done for him was being done, and the others couldonly stand by.

  The women not engaged in caring for the fighting visitors soon foundthemselves busy with their own male relatives, who came stumbling in bythemselves or were carried by others. The Red Bones, though finallyannihilated, had made their mark in the Mayoruna tribe. At that momentthirty-six of Monitaya's warriors lay dead among the bodies of theirenemies, and before the next sunrise several more passed on to join thespirits of their comrades in arms. Yet all who survived, though somewere crippled for life, thought only of the victory and gloated on theirscars of combat. As for those who had fallen, they were dead, had diedas Mayorunas should, and so needed no sympathy or regret. Even now theirbodies were being collected for immediate transportation into theforest, where, in accordance with the tribal custom, they would beburned.

  Some of the men who brought in the wounded men continued on to thebushmen and, in significant sign manual, requested a loan of theirmachetes. Having received them, they hastened out to join those who,equipped with hardwood knives, were gathering the sinister trophies oftriumph before heaving the dead Red Bones out to the waiting vultures.

  "Urrrgh!" growled Tim. "'Twas a lovely scrap, but I wisht I wassomewheres else, now it's over. While ye was away they brought in thefists and feet o' some guy they caught in a trap--"

  "We know," nodded Pedro.

  "Yeah. Wal, I s'pose we got to look pleasant. Dog eat dog, as the fellersays. Long as somebody has to git et, I'm glad it ain't us." Wherewithhe turned to the Raposa and changed the subject. "Raposy, old sport, yesure done some good work, for a crazy guy. I'll tell the world yecracked heads like a Bowery cop full o' bootleg booze."

  The Raposa's green eyes glimmered. In fact, they almost twinkled. Andfor the second time the wild man spoke.

  "I am not crazy."

  "Huh? My gosh! Ye spoke four whole words! That makes six in a week. Becareful, feller, or ye'll strain yerself. And as far's bein' crazy'sconcerned, don't let it worry ye none. We're all crazy, too, or wewouldn't be here."

  Under cover of his banter the veteran eyed the other sharply. As heturned his gaze aside to the moving figures about him he thought:"Begorry! he don't look like a nut, at that. Mebbe somethin'sunscrambled his brains again. Here's hopin', anyways."

  The big tribe house now was full of life. Small groups of warriors,their hurts dressed with primitive poultices, gathered around thehammocks of those more seriously injured and discussed the battle.Others came in bearing armfuls of severed Red Bone hands and feet, whichwere distributed among the family triangles. The women, their remedialwork done, now turned to the clay cooking vessels, freshened the fires,stripped the flesh of their enemies from the bones, and set it to boil.Among the hammocks moved the subchiefs, their eyes still shining withthe light of battle, examining the wounded men and glancing at thepreparations for the dire feast to come.

  Over all drifted a steadily thickening smoke which rolled up and outthrough the vent in the peak of the roof, where the setting sun smote itwith rays of gleaming red. Around the _maloca_ gleamed the red light ofthe cooking fires among whose burning fagots bubbled the red pots andpans. Red men and women passing about in a crimson setting--the sceneformed a fitting end to the reddest day in the unwritten records of thetribe, who since noon had proved themselves worthy champions of theancient god whose name they never had heard, but who nevertheless ruledtheir lives--the red god Mars.

  Monitaya himself, head high and chest swelling with pride, now camestriding lithely in, followed by a young warrior carrying something. Hestopped between the hammocks of McKay and Knowlton, studied their facesgravely, listened as his wives told of what had been done. At almost thesame moment the eyes of the pair slowly opened and stared up at him.

  The face of the great chief melted in one of its transforming smiles.The captain and the lieutenant grinned pluckily back. With a nod ofsilent comradeship the big savage turned to his own hammock and satdown. Two of his women built up the royal fire and fell to work on thethings handed over by the young warrior. Tim and his mates took onesquint at what they were doing. Then they moved between the fire and thetwo officers, blocking the view.

  "'Bout time ye woke up and listened to the birdies," Tim chaffed."Fight's over, and we been hangin' round waitin' for ye to quit snorin'so's we could hear ourselves think. Lay still, now! Ye're all plasteredup nice and comfy--and don't preach to me no more about the girls. Yehad every dang one o' the big chief's wives hangin' over ye and kissin'ye so hard it sounded like a machine gun. Ain't that right, fellers? Me,I'm so jealous I could bite the both of ye."

  "Schwandorf dead?" hoarsely queried McKay.

  "Huh? Oh, him? Sure. Ye fixed him right, Cap. The pretty li'l'blackbirds has flew away with him by now. Say, ye mind that fellerYuarry? Know what he done? Wal--"

  And while he talked, behind his back the wives of Monitaya completedtheir task and dropped into the great chief's stewpot the flesh of theblack-bearded slaver and slayer who would menace them no more.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  PARTNERS

  Seven men squatted around a camp fire on the river bank. Beyond them,half revealed by the flickering light of the flames, rose the poles of a_tambo_ wherein empty hammocks hung waiting. At the edge of the waterlay two canoes.

  Five of the men wore the habiliments of civilized beings, though theirshirts and breeches were so tattered and stained that a civilizedcommunity would have looked askance at them. The other two were nude assavages, but their beards and tanned skins were those of white men.Beards of varying length seemed, in fact, to be the fashion, foreveryone present wore one, and all but two were very dark. Of the oddpair, one's thin face was partly covered by stubby, blond hair, whilethe other's jaw was masked by a growth of unmistakable red.

  Lifting their cigarettes, the blond man and a tall, eagle-faced comrademoved their arms stiffly, as if still
hampered by injuries. Newly healedscars showed on the skins of the rest.

  "Injuns are a funny lot," declared the red-haired one. "There'sMonitaya, now. Keeps us a couple weeks, doctors us half to death, feedsus till we gag, gives us new canoes, sends a platoon o' hard guys withus to see that we git to the river safe--and don't even say good-by. Nohandshake, no 'Good luck, fellers'--jest a grin like we was goin' towalk round the house and come right back. And the lads that come outwith us done the same--turned round and quit us without a word. I bet ifwe lived amongst 'em long we'd git to be dummies, too."

  For a moment there was silence. For no apparent reason all glanced atone of the naked men, on whose skin faintly showed reddish streaks.

  "You would," he said.

  "Huh! Gee! Rand's talkin' again! First time since we licked them RedBoneheads. Two whole words. Go easy, feller, easy!"

  "I will be easy. But it's time I talked. I am not dumb. I am not crazy."

  The green-eyed man spoke slowly, as if forming each word in his mindbefore pronouncing it. The rest squatted with eyes riveted on his face.

  "I have not talked before because I had to find myself. I had to hearEnglish spoken and become used to it. I had to put things together in mymind. Even now some things are not clear. But I can talk and make senseof my talk. I will tell what I can remember. First tell me one thing.McKay, am I a murderer?"

  "A murderer? You? If you are we never heard of it."

  "A man named Schmidt. Gustav Schmidt. German merchant at Manaos."

  "Gustav Schmidt? Piggy little runt, bald and fat, with a scar across hischin?"

  "Yes."

  "He's dead, but you didn't kill him. He was shot a little while ago by ayoung Brazilian for getting too intimate with the young fellow's wife.We heard about it while we were in Manaos, and saw his picture. Whatabout him?"

  "I thought I killed him. I struck him with a bottle. I was told he wasdead. How long have I been here?"

  "You left the States in 1915. It is now 1920."

  "Five years? My God! What has happened in that time? Is my mother well?"

  The others looked pityingly at him. Slowly Knowlton spoke.

  "Your mother died two years ago from heart trouble. Your uncle, PhilipDawson, also is dead."

  Rand's jaw set. The others shifted their gaze and busied themselves withmaking new cigarettes, spending much time over the simple task.

  "Poor mother!" Rand said, huskily. "Uncle Phil--he was a good old scout.And I was here--buried alive--only half alive! My head--Tell me, whathappened on the night before you dressed my lame foot? I rememberclearly everything from the time I woke in the canoe before daylightthat morning. Before that there is a blur."

  Knowlton sketched the events of that night, and told also of the glimpsewhich he and Pedro had caught of the "wild man" while waiting outsidethe house of the Red Bone chief. A flash lit up Rand's face.

  "So that is how I got my sore head. You struck me with your rifle butt.That explains much. Before I became a wild beast I was shot in the head.The bullet did not go through the skull. It struck me a terrible blow onthe crown. When I recovered consciousness I was not myself. I have neverbeen the same until--"

  "Gee cripes!" exploded Tim. "That's it. I seen that same thing up home.Bug Sullivan, it was. When he was a li'l' feller he tumbled downstairsand hit his head, and for 'most ten years he was foolish. Then a brickfell off a buildin' and landed on his bean. It knocked him for a gool,but when he come out of it he was bright as a new dime. Looey, when yebusted Rand with yer gun ye jarred somethin' loose inside, and now he'sgood as any of us."

  "By George! You're right!" cried the lieutenant. "Things like that dohappen. I've heard of them. Haven't you, Rod?"

  McKay nodded.

  "That is it," affirmed the Raposa. "I have not been insane. But much wasgone from me. My mind was a house full of closed doors which I could notopen. I knew who I was and why I was here, but I knew also thatsomething had happened to my brain; knew I was defective; believed I waswanted for murder. So I could not go out. I could only stay here, prowlthe jungle, live the jungle life.

  "Now that the closed doors have opened again, others have swung shut. Icannot remember much of my wild-beast life here. Some things are clear.Too clear. Torturings and horrible feasts. Perhaps I should be gratefulthat some things are forgotten.

  "But now my life up to the time I was shot is plain again. I talked witha man who had traveled the Amazon and the Andes. I never had seeneither, and I was ripe for something new. A steamer was just sailingsouth, and I got aboard in a hurry. No baggage but a suitcase and fivethousand dollars. I had traveled a good deal--Europe, Canada, Japan--andalways found that plenty of money was all a man needed. Thought it wasthe same way here. I've learned better.

  "I visited Rio--a few hours--and then came up along the coast andinland. At Manaos I got into trouble. Went ashore and got to drinkingwith two Germans. One of them--Schmidt--grew ugly and said a lot ofrotten things about the States. Tell me something, men--is the war overand did our country get into it?"

  "It is, and it did." And Knowlton outlined the epochal occurrences ofthe world conflict.

  "And I missed that, too!" mourned Rand. "But I started a war of my owndown here, anyway. When I quit seeing red I had a bottle neck in my handand both the Germans were down. Somebody said Schmidt was dead. A coupleof men tried to grab me. I fought my way clear, hid awhile, got back onthe boat without being noticed, and paid one of the crew well to hide mein the hold and feed me. Nearly died from heat and suffocation downthere, but lived to reach Iquitos, where my man smuggled me ashore. Ithought I was safe there. But before I could make a move to travel on Ifell into the hands of that cursed Schwandorf."

  "Schwandorf!"

  "Schwandorf. He was in Iquitos. The sailor who hid me must have sold meout to him. Schwandorf told me he was a police officer in Brazilianemploy. Said he would take me back to stand trial for murdering Schmidt.The dirty blackmailer took all my money to keep his mouth shut and takeme to a 'safe place.' The safe place was up this river. I came up herewith him in a canoe paddled by some tough Peruvians. Then he begantrying to bully me into doing dirty work for him--running women intoPeru. I saw red again and jumped for him. He gave me that bullet on thehead.

  "After that things are badly blurred. I found myself among savages. HowI got there, why I wasn't killed, I don't know. Schwandorf was thereawhile. Then he went away with his gang, leaving me very sure of onlyone thing--I was a murderer and would be executed if caught. And--well,that's about all, except that the savages seemed rather afraid of me anddidn't want me around."

  There was another silence. Then Lourenco remarked:

  "Between Schmidt and Schwandorf you have suffered much. It is possiblethat there was a connection of some sort between them. But neither canever trouble you again. I do not see why Schwandorf took the troubleeven to put you among the Red Bones. One more bullet would have endedyou."

  "Any ideas on that subject, Jose?" asked McKay.

  "Only a guess, Capitan. I was not here five years ago, and I knewnothing of Schwandorf then. But I know he always schemed for his owngood and overlooked no chances. So perhaps, finding this man not dead,but darkened in mind by his bullet, he thought he might be able to usehim in some way at some future time. A dead man is not useful to anyone.If this man should never become valuable he could live and die forgottenamong savages, where he could do Schwandorf no harm. If worth somethinghe could be found again."

  "Cold-blooded Prussian efficiency," nodded McKay. Then he spoke directlyto Rand.

  "Since you're mentally sound," he went on, "we may as well tell you howyou happen to be among us. We three--Merry, Tim, and I--came here tofind you. The settlement of the Dawson estate hinges on you."

  "On me? How? I've no claim to it. Paul Dawson, Uncle Phil's son--"

  "Is dead, too. Killed in action in the Argonne, You're next in line."

  McKay watched him keenly. So did Knowlton. The half-expected jubilancedid not come.
/>   "So Paul's gone," was Rand's reply. "Hard luck. Suppose I hadn't beenfound--then what?"

  "In due time the money would go to a school. Boys' school."

  "Orphans? Blind? Cripples?"

  "Hardly." McKay's mouth curved sardonically. He named a preparatoryschool of the "exclusive" type. Rand's mouth also twisted.

  "That hotbed of snobbery? That twin sister to a society girls' finishingschool? Might have known it, though. Uncle Phil was fond of the sort ofeducation that doesn't educate. I'm glad you fellows found me. I'll gohome and collect every red cent, just to keep it out of the hands of thesupercilious bunch of bishops that run that sissy-spawner."

  Knowlton chuckled appreciatively.

  "It's not the sort of school that breeds he-men, for a fact," he agreed."But you don't seem much enthused over having a couple of millionsdropped into your lap."

  Rand sat still. His face remained cheerless, impassive.

  "What is money?" he said, presently. "I've always had plenty of it.What's it done for me? When you have it you can't tell whether peopleare friends to you or only friends to your money. It makes you cynical,suspicious. What's worse, you depend too much on it. You think it willdo everything. Then if you land in a place where it's no good and youhaven't got it, anyway, you're up against it a good deal harder than thefellow who never had it but knows how to handle himself without it."

  "True for ye," Tim concurred, heartily. "All the same, I bet ye'llchange yer tune after ye git home."

  "Will I?" The green eyes impaled him. "Maybe. But I don't think so. I'vehad my run at blowing in money on myself alone. Now I'm going to blowsome on other folks. I missed out on the war, but--There must be quite afew of our fellows lamed and crippled by that war. And I'll gamble thatthe government isn't treating them all like princes. I know somethingabout governments."

  "Princes? Say, feller, there's many a dog that's took better care ofthan some of our boys back home!"

  "So I thought. The income from a couple of millions, along with some ofthe principal, will do a lot of good if used right. And--" His eyesturned to the three bushmen.

  "Do not look at us in that way," said Lourenco, reading his thought. "Wecan make all the money we need, and we came with the capitao and hiscomrades only because we wanted excitement. Use your money for thecrippled men who need it."

  "And Jose Martinez also is well able to provide for his wants," coollyadded the other naked man. "I am here only to settle old scores, and nowthey are settled. Each man is goaded by his own spur--money, wine,women, excitement, revenge. Money is not mine."

  He yawned, arose, stretched like a cat, and stepped toward his hammock.The two Brasilians also moved toward the _tambo_. The others stood amoment longer beside the fire.

  "Well, since we three didn't come here because of wine, women, orrevenge," Knowlton said, whimsically, "it must have been for money andexcitement. Don't know which was the stronger lure, but if we could haveonly one of the two I think we'd let the money slide. How about it,Rod?"

  "Right! And, Rand, let me say this: Before we knew you we had animpression that you were more or less of a worthless pup. We've changedour ideas. If you ever go broke and want to hit a trail into some newplace to make a strike of your own, and you need partners, let us know."

  And he held out his hand.

  The naked millionaire took it. For the first time a faint smilelightened his face.

  "I'll do that, partners!" he promised.

  "Yeah! That's the word. Pardners! Only, li'l' Timmy Ryan bucks at evertravelin' back into this here, now, Ja-va-ree jungle. I got enough ofit. Right now I'm homesick."

  "So say we all," affirmed Knowlton. "Now let's turn in."

  But Tim stood a little longer looking out at the moonlit river and thetwo waiting canoes. His gaze roved along the stream, northward. Helifted his head, opened his mouth, expanded his lungs, and then theastounded denizens of forest and stream cut short their discordantconcert to listen to something they never had heard before and neverwould hear again--a great voice thundering a censored version of a NorthAmerican army song.

  "Home, boys, home! Home we want to be! Home, boys, home, in God's countree! We'll raise Ol' Glory to the top o' the pole And we'll all come back--not a dog-gone soul!"