Amazon Nights: Classic Adventure Tales from the Pulps

by Arthur O. Friel

  "Twelve thousand milreis!"

  "Deus meo!" I muttered. “Are you sure?"

  "Sure. It is all in one great roll, tied with busk-cord, lying there in the corner under those rifles as if it were a mere lump of dirt. The guns are Winchesters, forty-four, such as we use. The machetes are Collins, like ours. The clothes are the same as we should wear. And I believe the men were seringueiros like ourselves."

  "But three seringueiros—where would they get twelve thousand milreis?"

  "Perhaps by gambling with others. Or perhaps more than three men have died here, and the guns and clothes of the rest are lost or thrown away. And—hush! Let us go outside."

  We lounged out, meeting the woman coming toward us. She entered the place, but came out almost at once with a piece of that queer stony stuff which sometimes is found floating down our streams and which our Indians believe to be hardened river-foam. We watched her return to her fish, lift the knife and scrub rust from the blade with the foam-stone. She gave us the same slow smile as she passed, and in her gaze we saw no suspicion.

  Strolling idly away, we acted as if only looking about us. I noticed that between her house and the edge of the bank no small growth stood, and that we could see for some distance up and down the opposite hilltop. Perhaps the light of our small fire had glinted through the jungle last night and caught her eye, or its drifting smoke had been borne to her on a breeze, to arouse her curiosity and send her to spy on us as soon as moonrise gave enough light. We walked on until we could continue talking.

  "Twelve thousand milreis!” I muttered. “And this woman led us straight to her house and left you, a stranger, there with that money while she went fishing with me. She certainly is not sly—at times she looks as if her mind slept—and yet she is not simple either. She shows us everything and tells us nothing. I can make neither head nor tail of it all."

  "Nor I,” he admitted. “What do you think her to be? White, or only partly white?"

  "A mameluca,” I judged. “Like ourselves—white, with a little Indian blood. Beyond that I can not guess what she may be."

  "We can only watch and wait,” he said. “Asking questions is useless. Let matters shape themselves."

  But as we idled back to her I thought of one question which she might answer, and which meant much to us. When we were beside her again I pointed toward the river and asked—

  "Tecuahy?"

  She nodded.

  "Praise God!” I rejoiced. “Our fight with the bush is over. What part of the Tecuahy is this? Where does the Branco flow in—above or below here?"

  At the word “Branco” she started. A sudden wild light flared into her eyes. Then she dropped her head and went on with her work.

  We glanced at each other. On the Branco, a river three hundred miles long which enters the Tecuahy from the west, are a few seringales. Where seringales are, there must be seringueiros to work them. The clothing and weapons—and perhaps the money—in her house were those of seringueiros.

  We began talking of the Branco and of rubber-workers from there whom we had met at Remate de Males. But it did no good. She only arose, made a fire and began cooking the fish.

  We shrugged our shoulders and gave it up. As Pedro had said, talk was useless.

  While we ate of the fish—which she had cooked very skillfully—and while all three of us smoked again afterward, Pedro and I were as silent as the woman herself. I was puzzling, planning one way after another to solve the mystery, and throwing away each plan when it was made. My partner too was thinking; and so also, perhaps, was she, though neither her face nor her acts gave any sign of what passed in her mind.

  The sun beat down fiercely, and the day grew sweltering hot. There under the big trees we should have been fairly cool; but no breeze moved, and the hot air from the sluggish river crept over the hill and around us like unseen steam. I wished we were out of the place and on our way down the Tecuahy. The wish brought me to a decision.

  "We thank you for your hospitality,” I told her. “We should much like to know more of you and be your friends. But since you will not talk to us, we are only wasting time. So as soon as it grows cooler we shall go."

  Her eyes opened at that. She shook her head.

  "Let us go now instead of waiting,” said Pedro. “It can not be hotter on the river. What is the good of delaying here?"

  The woman gave him a look of sullen anger. As we arose she also stood up. Again she shook her head. Then she smiled at both of us and moved her hands as if swimming.

  Now neither of us was a powerful swimmer, for, as I have said, we seldom swam because of the hidden dangers of the streams; but we could keep ourselves afloat well enough, and the thought of a cool swim in safe water struck us as pleasant. We agreed at once. She turned and led the way toward her enclosed bathing pool.

  "Do you really intend to go?” Pedro asked softly.

  "I intend now to swim,” I returned. “Perhaps when we have soaked our heads we can think of something. If not, we had best go."

  And we followed the wordless woman on through the forest and down her zigzag path to the little moutá.

  There she coiled up her hair, loosed her belt, dropped the trousers which probably had belonged to some seringueiro now dead, and stood in only that close tanga. As we were wearing nothing but tattered shirts and breeches, we had only to lay our weapons in the path, pull off our shirts, and jump to the moutá. As I landed on that little platform she left it in a graceful dive.

  Her spring made the thing sway under me, and I tottered and nearly fell off it. And before it grew steady I did fall.

  "Have care!” came Pedro's cry as he leaped from the bank.

  I had just caught my balance when his weight struck the moutá. It wobbled violently, we grabbed each other, and then we tumbled sousing into the water.

  When we came up, snorting and coughing, the woman was floating nearby and laughing at us. We caught the posts and clung there, regaining our breath and grinning. She swam smoothly away, then went under and disappeared. While I was looking for her to come up beyond the spot where she had gone down, her head bobbed up almost in my face, startling me so that I nearly fell backward again. She had turned and come to me under the surface, and now she and Pedro both laughed at my sudden jump.

  Feeling rather foolish, I let go my hold and struck out into the pool, enjoying its coolness and proving that I could swim. My strokes, I felt, were awkward compared to her easy movements, but I did not flounder. Behind me sounded a splash as Pedro also took to the water. I swam on until he caught up and passed me, when I turned back.

  "Keep on!” he called. “I will race you to the other side."

  But I was breathing a little hard, and as I now was nearer to the platform than he I panted:

  "I will race you—to the moutá!"

  Glancing back, I saw him swerve and knew he had accepted the challenge. So I began swimming my hardest. I beat him to the posts, but by only about two strokes; and the effort winded me. For that matter, it winded him too.

  The woman had climbed up the ladder-pole to watch us from the top of the little stage. Looking up, I found a queer expression on her face. For the first time since we had come, she looked crafty. But as she caught my eye the expression disappeared and she smiled that slow smile. Pointing to the opposite shore, she vaulted out and began swimming the instant she struck the surface.

  In less time than it had taken us two clumsy men to swim halfway across and back, she reached the other side and returned to the posts where we rested. And in spite of her speed she was not gasping when she ended her trip—only breathing a little faster. She looked at me as if expecting praise; so I spoke the simple truth.

  "You are a wonderful swimmer,” I said. “I have never seen a woman swim so well."

  "Nor any man either,” added Pedro. “You are a fish—a real bouto."

  She smiled at my compliment; but when he called her “bouto” she lost the smile. For a second I thought her eyes gleamed with the s
ame wild light which had shone there when she heard the word “Branco.” But it quickly died. She glanced up, then motioned for us to climb the ladder. We were quite willing to sit and breathe a while, so up we went. She followed.

  While we sat and rested Pedro and I argued jokingly as to which of us was the faster in the water. He declared he could have won if I had not kicked so much water into his face. I replied that excuses did not win races. The woman leaned forward quickly—almost as if she had expected some such argument—and began to talk in her sign language.

  She pointed to the pole barrier at the farther end; then to me and to a point some twenty yards away; then to Pedro and to a place ten yards nearer; last to herself and the moutá. After that she moved her hands as if swimming, then swept one hand past us and again pointed to the poles.

  "You will race both of us to that wall?” asked Pedro. “You will give my comrade a start of twenty yards, and me ten yards, and then beat us both?"

  She nodded, teeth flashing and eyes alight.

  "It is a long swim,” he laughed, measuring the distance, “and I do not doubt that you can win. But you must swim to prove it. Lourenço, when she and I reach the poles I will come back to help you."

  "Indeed?” I scoffed. “You will be much more than ten yards behind when I touch that wall. She may beat me, but you will not."

  "You must swim to prove it,” he repeated.

  Without reply, I jumped off and headed for the wall.

  Knowing that he would not start until I had gained my lead, I took my time. When I reached the ten-yard point I heard him splash in. I swam on, still slowly, until a second splash sounded. Then behind me came Pedro's shout:

  "Swim! I am going to crawl right up your back!"

  I grinned and struck out hard and fast.

  The wall seemed very far away, but I knew Pedro was not much better at swimming than I, and I hoped to cover a good distance before being overtaken even by the dolphin woman. Once I looked back, finding that she already had gained on him, but that he was no nearer to me than before. Then I fixed my eyes on the wall and stroked onward without thought of anything except finishing the race as fast as possible.

  Soon I was breathing hard. My legs began to feel a little tired. I wished I had done more walking lately, for many days of canoe travel had weakened me somewhat from the waist down. But the wall was growing larger, and still neither my comrade nor the woman had caught me. I began to think I might win over both of them. The thought gave me more power, and I struggled on faster than before.

  Somewhere behind me sounded a gurgling gasp and a splash. I grinned again. Pedro had caught a mouthful of water, I thought, and would have to slow up. My arms were tiring now, but I still held the lead and I was determined to keep it if I could. I listened for other splashes which would show he too was tired, but none came.

  Suddenly I felt that it was strangely still.

  The thought drew my head around. I found myself alone. Both Pedro and the woman had gone down.

  Instantly I swirled around and started back. The woman might be swimming under water, but Pedro would not; he could not hold his breath well enough. That gasp I had heard came back to me. Had Pedro drowned? Had they both drowned? Or was some monster here which had dragged them under to a death more frightful than drowning?

  Madly I scooped water in my effort to reach the spot where my partner might be. I dropped my face and stared down, seeing only blackness. I lifted it again, gasped—and saw something ahead.

  Something shapeless, something gone as soon as seen—a heel, an elbow, a clenched hand, perhaps—showed for an instant on the surface. I fought toward it. It disappeared before I reached the place, but I knew where it had been. Lowering my head again, I peered down as I swam. Just as my straining lungs made me raise my mouth for air I caught a glimpse of something below.

  Snatching a deep breath, I put my face under the surface once more. Beneath me floated a pale shape, moving very feebly. Something else seemed to be with it. I did not waste time in watching it. With all my power I threw myself down to the dying thing.

  I looked into the swollen face of Pedro, staring upward with eyes that saw nothing. And as I grabbed at a limp arm I saw another face just below his. It, too, seemed swollen, but its eyes were alive. In them was a chill glare that was horrible to see. For a second it struck me cold, that awful face under him. Then I yanked at the arm I held and started clawing my way upward.

  The terrible face moved away from him. An arm fell away from around his throat. A light body darted away and swiftly rose. Pedro too rose, and, strangling from pent breath, I broke out into the sun and air.

  Another head was near me on the surface, its mouth open and gasping like mine. It was that of the woman. As I got my wind and turned to support Pedro's face above water she came at us both. I looked again into the glaring eyes I had seen under water—eyes agleam with murder. A hoarse, horrid sound came from her—a sound like a killing animal of the jungle. She was Death.

  Pedro's arm moved a little in my clutch. I pulled him to one side, away from the woman, and stroked hard with my free hand. She came on, reaching for him and for me. Turning again, I stabbed my open hand at her, intending to shove her away. I did not quite reach her. But my hand, striking along the surface, spurted water into her face just as she drew breath. She choked, coughed and stopped.

  At once I was off again, striking for the nearest bank and towing Pedro, who was still trying to swim. Thrashing along through the ripples, nearly exhausted, I had gone several yards when something under me clutched at one ankle.

  The clutch missed, but it threw me into blind panic. Pulling up my legs, I kicked backward and down with all my force. One heel struck violently against something. I kicked again, but felt nothing. And then somehow I got myself and Pedro to the land.

  Just above the water's edge was a small hollow in the bank, and I managed to climb into it and haul Pedro out. Then I fell, totally exhausted. For a few minutes I lay recovering some strength, Pedro lying across me, quivering and moaning and weakly belching water. When I was able to sit up his eyes showed that consciousness was coming back to him. I got to my knees and worked on him until he could breathe without choking.

  While I helped him I looked around repeatedly for the woman, but saw her nowhere. If she had swum ashore she had done it quickly and quietly. I remembered our weapons, lying back there in the path by the moutá, and wished they were nearer. If that deadly woman got our guns she could come along the top of the bank and shoot us like cornered rats.

  So, seeing that Pedro was in no further danger of suffocation, I scrambled up the bank to the top and ran to the moutá. Our guns, machetes, and shirts lay in the path as we had left them. The footprints in the path, too, all pointed toward the platform. Nobody had come up there since we three had gone down it together. And nowhere along the enseada could I see any person.

  Back along the path I went with our belongings until I was above Pedro. There, as I stood looking down at the pool where we had just fought for life, I thought of the clutch at my ankle, remembered the thing I had kicked so hard—and I saw something. Down there in the darkness something light showed; something which seemed only a paler shadow than the rest, but which might be—

  I slid down to my comrade. He was sitting up against the clay, looking weak and wan, but alive and awake.

  "Where is she?” he whispered.

  "I am afraid,” I answered soberly, “that she is out there. I am going to see."

  You can not guess, senhores, how I dreaded to enter that water again. But I did enter it, swam out to where I had seen that pale shadow, and went down. And when I came up I brought the Bouto woman with me.

  Yes, she was there—very still now, and so far down that I had hard work to reach the top again. She made no movement when I towed her to shore, nor after that. I toiled long to bring back her life, but she never breathed again.

  "God help me, I have killed her!” I told Pedro, who now was able to
help me.

  And I spoke of my kick at the thing which grasped my leg, and of what had gone before.

  "You did not kill her,” he said. “She drowned. She is full of water. Your kick stunned her, perhaps, or knocked out her breath; but the kick itself did not kill. And even if it had killed, she was trying to murder us. I was almost dead—I was blind and had lost my senses. Do not reproach yourself."

  Then he told me what had taken place out there. She had caught up with him, as he had expected. But then, instead of passing, she had made a swooping dive, seized an arm, turned him on his back and dragged him down headfirst. She was under him, clutching him around the throat, and he could neither free himself nor even reach her. She had only to keep her grip and hold her breath while he drowned himself with his fierce struggles.

  "But why?” I wondered.

  "Do not ask me why any woman does anything. She did not like me, we know. Perhaps she thought that if she killed me you would stay and be her man. You were ahead, racing for the poles, and she probably thought you would not look back until you reached them. By that time she could stifle me, rise and swim after you as if nothing had happened. You would think I had exhausted myself and drowned alone after she passed me in the race."

  I thought this over and disagreed.

  "That may have been her plan,” I said, “but I do not think that was her reason. There is something else. We must look further for the cause of this thing. Let us see what is in her house."

  So up the bank we worked, bearing with us the strangely silent woman who now was silent for all time. Back to the base of the massaranduba we carried her, and there we laid her down in her hammock and carefully looked over everything in the house. But we found nothing to show who she was or why she should wander under the midnight moon to our camp and try to destroy us when we in turn came to her.

  As Pedro had said, the house had been made by fire and ax. We found the ax—an old rusty tool which had not been used for a long time, and which bore no mark to show whence it had come. We closely examined the guns, machetes and clothing, and became fully convinced that they were those of rubber-workers. We counted the money again, peered into cooking pots and gourds and everything that could possibly hold a clue. And when we ceased searching the place we were none the wiser.