"Then stay here and think of them,” I interrupted. “I want no man who fears the bush. You, Antonio—and you, Meldo—what say you? Do you too fear to go?"
"I fear nothing which belongs in the bush,” answered Antonio. “But a fiend is another matter. I am in doubt—"
"That is enough,” I told him. “No man who fears even the horned devil himself can come on this journey. All three of you can report to the coronel for new assignments. Pedro, come with me."
I scowled at him as if displeased, though I secretly rejoiced that those men had quit before learning from the coronel that I did not want them. When we had left them behind us I asked in a scolding tone:
"Why tell such a wild tale and scare away my gang?"
"Most illustrious capitao,” he explained with a mocking bow, “I was only trying to attach myself to your honored company. I have been put into the gang of Arnado Pestana, which means nothing more exciting than tapping and smoking. Luis is no man of the bush, and I thought he might like to trade places with me—if I scared him enough. Now that he and the other two have quit, perhaps you can persuade the coronel to shift me."
"You are shifted already,” I said. “The coronel has changed the orders. He decided that Luis and the rest were too valuable to be sent out on a long trip, while you and I were such worthless rascals that we should never be missed if we were lost. He also said that we could go as far as we liked and he did not care if we never came back. I hope you feel as highly flattered as I do."
"We go alone?” he asked, his brown eyes glowing. “We two and no others?"
I nodded.
"Of course we are expected to find several million milreis worth of new rubber,” I added. “Except for that, we have nothing to do."
"Nothing to do but risk our lives,” he laughed. “And the whole Javary jungle to risk them in. Por Deus! What a holiday! Perhaps we may find something more interesting than rubber before we return, Lourenço. Who knows?"
"Perhaps we may,” I echoed. And we did.
* * * *
II
SCOUTING FOR new rubber, senhores, is not so simple as it may seem to those who have not done it. You may think, perhaps, that since the only roads in our jungle are the streams, the best plan is to paddle along those streams until a rich rubber area is found, then explore that region and return to headquarters. And so it is a good plan—until all such places have been found. After that, men seeking new grounds must search the unknown bush. And of the scouts who go into the heart of the jungle on such hunts, those who come out usually are fewer than those who went in.
That is why, on a seringal so wide as that of our coronel, the search for new lands may be a grim venture. That is why the scouts are sent, not singly, but in bodies of six or more men: the more men, the more chances that some of them will live to bring back the report of the expedition. Yet to my mind there is another side to this practice: the more men, the greater the chance of sickness or accident coming to one and thus slowing up the whole journey—for of course you can not abandon a sick or wounded comrade.
The weakness of one man has hampered many a band of jungle-rangers so seriously that the expedition failed and the men returned in desperate condition—those who did return. And that is why I opposed the coronel's plan to send a squad of ordinary tappers and smokers, and chose instead the one man whom I knew and trusted above all others: my brother bush-rover, Pedro.
We outfitted ourselves with four weeks’ supplies of salt pirarucu fish, dried beef, rice, coffee and sugar; new repeating rifles and plenty of .44 bullets; and, of course, our machetes and machadinhas. Also we made sure that we had a three-foot roll of tobacco, some packets of tauari bark for cigarette papers, and rubber-wrapped matches. We calculated that when we should leave our canoe and make up our bark-strip packs for travel through the dense sertao they would weigh about seventy pounds each. And that weight, senhores, is quite enough for a man forcing his way through sticky mud and thick bush, swinging his machete at every step and carrying his rifle ready in the other hand.
Yet, when we had stowed all in the canoe, Pedro stood frowning down at the load as if dissatisfied.
"What is the matter?” I asked. “We have all we need, and it is packed so that it balances well."
He nodded doubtfully. Then he swung on his heel and went away. Soon he returned with a small jug.
"Rum and ginger,” he said in answer to my look. “I do not know why, but I feel that we should carry it. More than once we have seen the time when a drink would have been worth more than gold."
He spoke truth. There are times when a little strong liquor is priceless. So, though I had been about to grumble that a jug was too clumsy to pack through the bush, I held my tongue. The jug went into the bow of the boat; and before we saw the headquarters again I was to be thankful that we had taken it.
We had started our packing while the early morning mist still hung heavy along the river, and even now the bright sun was not high. A cool little breeze played along the water, brilliant butterflies floated flashing along the banks, and from the jungle on both sides of the stream sounded the morning racket of monkeys and macaws and other bush life. A perfect day for paddling awaited us; and as we took our places in the dugout and faced the start of our long journey we breathed deep with the joy of being alive and looking ahead to weeks of action.
"Adeos, amigos," Pedro called to the men standing on the edge of the bank above us. “Luis, if we meet that demon again we will cut off his hand and bring it back to you."
And he laughed.
Luis made no answer in words. He looked straight at Pedro for a moment, his face somber. Then he raised an arm, pointing up the river. Following the motion, we saw, swinging slowly in the air, high above the stream, a vulture.
A grunt ran among the other men as they too saw the evil bird.
"Death waits,” one muttered.
"Death waits everywhere,” Pedro scoffed. “So long as it does nothing but wait, I am satisfied."
But the faces of Luis and his mates remained sober. And suddenly one pointed, not at the death-bird in the sky, but at the water before us.
"Death crosses your bow before you have taken one stroke!” he cried. “See!"
From my place in the stern I saw nothing alarming. But Pedro, in the bow, muttered something, swung up his paddle, and struck hard. The edge of the paddle bit into the water with a vicious chunking splash. Then, stretching my neck, I glimpsed something writhing in a reddening welter of ripples.
A flat, triangular head—a whip-like neck—a squirming tail—the thing came contorting itself down past me. It was in two pieces, cut apart by the force of Pedro's blow; and the two pieces together had formed that deadliest of snakes—the jararaca.
Under the surface something made a rush. Glistening heads, snapping teeth, glaring eyed—the snake was gone, chopped into fragments by blood-maddened piranhas. A few small ripples licked against the side of the canoe; the red stain disappeared; and Pedro laughed again.
"Si, Death crosses our bow,” he jeered. “And you saw what happened to Death, did you not? Death or demons—let them come! Lourenço, are you ready? Let us leave these old women here to shake their heads and mutter. A long trail waits for our feet."
He surged at his paddle, and I at mine. Out into the river we swung, and up against the slow current we pushed our way. And as we rounded a turn and the headquarters clearing disappeared I glanced up again at the spot where the vulture had circled. It was not wheeling there now.
Instead, a black blot was moving away from us across the blue bowl of sky; flapping straight up the river ahead of us as if speeding away for some dread purpose. And in spite of Pedro's jeers and my own common sense, the croaking voice of the man behind us echoed in my ears—
"Death waits!"
* * * *
III
SIX DAYS we swung our paddles. Six nights we camped on hilltops or in little natural ports and slept without harm or alarm. No snake, no jaguar, no v
ampire bat, no other evil thing disturbed us by day or by dark, and the worst sound we heard was the hideous but harmless howling of guariba monkeys, to which we gave no attention. On the seventh day we paddled until noon. Then, entering the mouth of a slow, narrow creek, we unloaded all our supplies on the shore, slid the canoe under the deep shadow of some giant ferns, and, after eating, began to make our packs. We had reached the point where we must take to our legs. East of us lay the unknown section through which we had decided to travel first.
"Our little holiday has ended,” my comrade sighed, scanning the dense growth around us. “No more free and easy swinging of the paddle. From now on we work for every foot of ground."
"You have it right,” I agreed. “And now how do you intend to carry that awkward jug of yours?"
"On your back,” he grinned. “You surely did not think I intended to burden myself with it?"
"If you do not it will not go far,” I retorted. “I might carry what is in it, but not the jug itself."
"No? Pardon me, illustrious capitao—I forgot you were the commander of this two-man gang. I forgot, too, that you are too old and feeble to carry much weight. Since you refuse I will pack it myself. But of course if I carry it myself I will drink it myself. That is only fair."
"I will carry it today,” I decided, changing my mind. “Perhaps if I lighten it a little first I can endure its weight. You can pack it tomorrow."
"What a sudden change!” he mocked. “But I agree that it might be well to lighten it by a couple of mouthfuls."
And he drew the plug.
"Here is to ourselves and the coronel,” I said, lifting the jug. “May we return to this spot safe and successful."
I took one mouthful, and no more. The fiery liquid stung my throat so that I coughed and wept. Gasping, I passed the jug to him.
"A good thought,” he laughed. “And here is another which I once heard from a North American senhor at my old home in Santare:
"Here's to those who love us well!
Those who don't can go to hell!"
"A beautiful sentiment,” I agreed as he too lowered the jug and began to hiccough. “There are few who love us, but if the affection of those few is half as strong as this liquor we need no more friends."
He nodded, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and looked reproachfully at the jug. Then he drove in the plug with a thump of his fist, set the vessel among his slabs of pirarucu, and began building his pack around it. When the pack was made and slung from his shoulders it balanced as well as if no jug at all were in it.
"That is the safest way to carry it—strapped in tight,” he joked. “If it hung loose it might wriggle off and kick me from behind. Are we ready?"
Slinging my own pack and drawing my machete, I answered—
"Ready."
And we began cutting our way eastward.
For the rest of the day we worked on through the bush, keeping near the little creek. Near night we halted at a good spot near the water, cleared away the usual space for a tambo, built a pole shed, roofed it with the great leaves of the murumuru palm, slung our hammocks, made a fire, and ate heartily. Then we sprawled in the hammocks, smoked, and listened awhile to the cracking noise of the tree-toads and the rest of the early night uproar.
Presently Pedro began to laugh.
"I suppose Luis and Antonio and the rest have destroyed us a dozen times before now,” he said. “The great demon with the clutching hand has pulled us apart and scattered our bones all around the forest. ‘Death waits!’ they moaned. And here we lie comfortable and well fed, without having seen danger of any sort."
"Except that we nearly strangled over your pet jug."
"Ah, yes. But we have killed many a jug before now, old bushman, and—Hark!"
For minutes we hung silent, listening. The racket of the frogs and the howling of some far-off monkeys went on, but I heard nothing else. My comrade settled back.
"I heard a scream, or thought I did. Some beast has made a kill, perhaps."
Without reply, I kept on smoking and listening. He too kept quiet. Then suddenly we both sat up.
Faint and far away to the southward, a long thin cry sounded across the animal din—a cry which seemed the shrill yell of a man in torment and despair. As it died the forest uproar hushed, as if the wild creatures were listening and wondering like ourselves. For the time of three long breaths there was no sound. Then the night chorus began again. The voice which had made that cry was still.
We looked at each other and at the black night shadows beyond the fire-glow. Travel through the pathless bush had been hard by day; it would be almost impossible now.
"A man?” Pedro muttered doubtfully.
"I do not know. It is silent now."
More time dragged past, and no further sound came from the south. Pedro arose and laid a small stick on the ground under his hammock, pointing toward the direction from which the cry had come. Then he lay down again.
"Probably some animal in distress,” he said. “But tomorrow we might go southward and see whatever we may see. That cry could not carry far through bush as thick as this, and the place must be near."
"It may be farther off than you think,” I disagreed. “The wind is from the south. But in the morning we shall see. There is nothing we can do now."
We said no more, and we heard no more. Soon we slept.
IN THE morning we shouldered our packs again, looked at Pedro's stick and at the jungle to which it pointed, and started to the south. And before long we found that my random guess had been near the truth: the sound had traveled farther than Pedro thought.
After cutting our way through matted undergrowth for some distance, we came out at water. Before us a long, weedy, winding ygarapé stretched away southward. How long it might be we could not tell; nor could we guess how far along it that cry had been borne on the night wind. We noticed, though, that it seemed to veer eastward. So, to avoid being turned away from our course, we took the right bank. And along this, chopping through thickets and jumping tiny streams and plowing heavily through sucking mud, we labored on for what seemed a long, long time.
Though we held a straight course, we never lost the ygarapé. It wound along like the mai d'agoa herself—that great serpent, the Mother of Water. Time and again we came out at the edge of the water, where we stopped to scan the other side and mop our streaming faces with our arms; then, seeing nothing strange, we went on through another belt of bush, watching all around us.
At length, pausing once more beside the water, we stood and stared. Over on the other low-lying bank a clay knoll swelled up and dropped again. On the crest of that hill a huge tree stood. And it stood alone. No other tree grew beside it, and under it was no bush. Grim, dingy, yellow-green, unwholesome, it rose like a tremendous poison-plant avoided by all other trees. And a poison-plant it was.
"Assacu," said Pedro. “The poison tree. Can you make out its evil spikes on the trunk?"
I could. And I made out something else—two rings of darker color around the bark; one about two feet from the ground, the other higher up.
"I never before saw an assacu with two stripes on its butt,” I said.
"Nor I."
We stared thoughtfully at it. Then we looked up and down the ygarapé. We saw no way of crossing it. We knew it might wind on southward for miles before it ended, and even then its end might be an impassable lake or a vast swamp.
"I am going to look more closely at that tree,” my partner said. “And there is only one sure way to reach it."
So we turned back. All the way to the spot where we had first found that ygarapé we worked, and then down the eastern shore. Noon passed, and still we toiled onward. The sun had swung well over to the west before we felt the soft ground beginning to grow firm and rise under our feet. And when we broke through the bush into the open at the base of that knoll we were so tired and hungry that it seemed we could go no farther that day.
Half blind with sweat, we gave only one glance at th
e tree before we dropped our heavy packs and sat down wearily on them. We had not yet grown hardened to pack travel, and my shoulders now ached cruelly and my breath came hard. Pedro too sat with head bowed and body slouching forward. For a little time we gave no attention to the strangely striped tree which we had worked so hard to see.
Then I caught a gasp from my partner. Lifting my head, I found him tense, staring at the tree. And as I peered at its butt and saw what he saw, my breath stopped.
Bolt upright against that venomous trunk, lashed tight to the cruel spikes by two bands of bark, stood the naked body of a man.
* * * *
IV
FOR A dozen breaths we sat there as if frozen to our packs, watching that body whose yellowish skin blended with the yellow-green bark behind it. The drooping head, the dreadful stillness of the figure, showed beyond doubt that the man was dead. The bark bands showed that human fiends had bound him there. That much was plain. But the questions which jumped first to our minds found no answer—who he was, why he was there, and, more important still, who had put him there. And as we rose to go to him a thing happened which added to our perplexity.
The sun, rolling westward, struck down through an opening in the branches and lit up the body. At once a golden gleam flashed out from its naked breast. And as we mounted the hill that yellow radiance shone steadily into our eyes—the blaze of a gold cross dangling from the dead neck.
If Pedro had not looked down, that cross would have meant death to one or both of us. With our gaze fixed on it we should not have seen what lay before our feet. But something made my comrade drop his eyes an instant, and in that instant he swept an arm hard against my chest, stopping me with one foot in air. He leaped back, crowding me back with him; and in the same movement he dropped his gun hard.
"Jararaca!" he warned.
Held down by his rifle, a hideous shape lashed and squirmed. Pedro's machete flashed, and the deadly head flew off the creature. Picking up his gun, he crushed that head into the dirt with the butt. I slipped my own gun-muzzle under the body of the thing and snapped it writhing into the bush down below.
Amazon Nights: Classic Adventure Tales from the Pulps Page 27
