"For once you have spoken sense, capitao,” he smiled. “Let us find a sleeping-place."
So we lifted the packs once more and, stooping to keep below the grass-tops, left the little point. Back into the bush we went until we found a spot that would do for the night. Quickly we made camp. Then, leaving everything behind except our weapons, we struck off to the southeast, working on a slant toward the long lagoa.
Once more on the northern shore of that water, we stood behind trees and again looked along its rippling length. Pedro grunted.
"Aha! Now this dead water shows life!"
Far down the lagoon, almost at the end, four dark spots slowly grew larger. From them flashed little glints of light—the gleam of wet paddle-blades. Straight into the eye of the sun they came, heading directly for us. Behind our protecting trees we waited and watched.
The spots became bows topped by swaying shoulders and heads. On they came, and on, until we made out the naked copper bodies of the head paddlers. Then suddenly they swerved toward the northern bank and lengthened out into low-riding dugouts, each carrying six or more men. Bunched so closely that they seemed to blend into one boat, they surged straight at the shore; and, without slowing their speed, they slid into it and were gone.
"This lagoa must have an enseada on this side,” Pedro muttered.
We left our trees and, working stealthily, passed along through the undergrowth until we reached water again. As my partner had guessed, an enseada, or bay, opened there in the bank. But it was empty. The canoes had disappeared.
The water curved eastward, and we knew the paddlers had gone around a turn. We knew, too, that the end of the bay was not far off; for beyond the turn the line of treetops rose high at one place, showing that under it must be a hill perhaps a hundred feet tall. There, we judged, should be an Indian settlement. A moment later we were sure of it. Out broke a sudden thunder of drums.
"A war party!” said Pedro, his mouth close to my ear. “Those canoes have been on a raid. And did you notice that one of the men in the first boat was hunched over as if wounded or a prisoner?"
I nodded. We moved on.
Keeping within the cover of the bush but near the edge, where we could see without being seen, we slipped on around the turn. Then beyond us we viewed the hill, rising steep-faced from the water, and at one side of it a number of canoes. But no men were in sight. All were up on the hill where the log drums boomed in triumph. And as fast as we could go without betraying ourselves we hastened to reach and climb that hill. We knew that up there something important was taking place, and that now, while it was going on, was the best time for us to spy without being caught.
Unexpectedly we found ourselves in a path. It came from the forest, turned sharply, and led on toward the hill. It showed signs of much use, but it was empty now. Along it we stole swiftly until we reached the base of the hill.
The hill was steep of side as well as of front, and almost bare of the undergrowth which had concealed us thus far. The many small stubs in the ground showed that the bush had been cleared away by the inhabitants of the place, perhaps to lessen the chances of any attack. But the big trees still stood, and by crawling upward from one to another of these we reached the upper edge unseen. And there, lying close to the ground and peering out from behind the same butt, we saw and heard.
Before the small doorway of a long, low house, which stretched back I know not how far among the trees, stood two closely packed crowds of Indians. Hard-faced, muscular, naked except for small loin-mats, all painted with wavy stripes of red, and some armed with clubs, bows, or spears, they were fighting-men every one.
Half of them stood with backs to the house, the rest facing toward it. In the space between these gangs, watched by all, were two things on which our gaze also fixed: a motionless, confused heap on the ground, and a man standing with hands tied behind him.
The prisoner was white.
* * * *
VII
A LEAN bronzed man of medium height, with bushy blond hair and beard, and face hard-set; shirt ripped and mud-stained; breeches tight below the knee and also smeared with clay; boots laced to the knee—these were the things I noticed first. Then, looking him over once more, I saw that his light hair was stained with blood; that an empty cartridge-belt was around his hips; that from it hung a long holster, also empty; and that though he showed all the signs of a fierce fight, and though he now was a lone prisoner among scores of savages, he seemed to be not afraid but nearly bursting with rage.
My eye dropped to the heap on the earth near him. I saw a pair of copper-colored legs and a bare arm sticking out of the pile, which was still with the stillness of death.
Several dead savages, I thought. For an instant I wondered that even such hard-looking men as these should dump their dead in a pile like so much dirt. But then I thought no more of it, for a new thing took my attention.
The drums, somewhere but of sight beyond the crowd, stopped. The men before the door drew aside, leaving the way clear. And out from the house, moving with a smooth glide that reminded me of a snake, came a man who evidently was the chief.
Taller than the bound prisoner by half a head, he seemed higher still because of the lofty crown of brilliant long feathers which rose from his brow. He was painted like his men, as naked as they, and beardless like the rest; but otherwise he was no more like them than the lightning is like the thunder-clouds. Among their solid bodies he looked slender as a boy. Where their faces were broad and low his was long and thin. And that was not all. Every man of his warriors was copper-brown—but his sleek skin was white.
A white man with a black soul: that was my thought as I looked on him. Yes, a white man with the heart of a snake—and almost the body of a snake, too. That creeping glide of his—that slender, supple figure—and his eyes! As he stopped before the other white man and the sunlight fell on his face I saw that those eyes were as beady and venomous as if he were in truth a snake on legs. And the sneering smile he gave the prisoner was as deadly as the swift baring of a serpent's fangs.
The prisoner himself seemed to lose his tongue as he stared back at that white-skinned chief. For several breaths the two faced each other eye to eye, the men around them still as the trees. Then the blond man spoke.
"You the chief of these gory wolves?"
"Sí, señor."
The snake-man's voice was a hiss.
"Spaniard, eh?” growled the other. “Might have known it, you dirty renegade! If there's anything lower, viler, or meaner than a Spaniard that's been kicked out by his own people and gone native I never yet saw it."
I looked to see the snake-faced chief strike him down for that. But he made no move. The cruel smile widened a little. In sneering Spanish his hissing voice sounded again.
"The señor is displeased about something?"
The blond man gulped.
"Speak English?” he snapped.
"Sí, señor, hablo inglés."
"Then speak it, damn you! And hear me speak it, damn you! You lousy, stinking, yellow-bellied son of two dogs, you sent these brutes of yours to wipe out my men, didn't you? And not only to kill them but to chop them up and bring them here to you, you filthy cannibal! Look at them!"
Still smiling that deadly smile, the feather-crowned man looked coolly down at the still heap on the dirt.
"The señor has it right. The men are cut even as he says. Perhaps the señor would like to say farewell to one of his friends?"
Swiftly he bent and lifted something from the pile. My breath stopped. The thing he had raised, senhores, was the bloody arm of a man, chopped off at the shoulder.
And before the prisoner could dodge or even guess his intention, that snaky fiend slapped him on the face with the dead hand on the end of that arm.
A choking yell broke from the blond man. Straining at the cords binding his wrists, he sprang at the grinning chief. He butted at him with his head, kicked at him, even tried to reach him with his teeth. But the snaky one move
d about with the same smooth speed, avoiding all his attack and laughing in his face. Finally the red-eyed captive, unable to reach him, stood still and cursed him.
He cursed that chief with bitter, burning words until his voice failed. Then he stood panting, his face still working. And the chief grinned on.
"Sí, the señor is displeased,” he mocked. “It is very sad. But the señor does me wrong when he calls me cannibal. I do not eat the flesh of men, for I do not like its taste. But my brothers here are fond of feasting on their enemies, and I am too soft of heart to deny them."
"Enemies!” the other rasped. “Those men of mine were not enemies to anyone. They were quiet, good-hearted fellows who came with me by the government's order. And I tell you you will pay for this! I am on government work, and when the government knows of this it will hunt you to your death—you and every brute in your gang!"
The chief laughed again in his hissing way.
"The señor forgets that the government may not hear. It is a true saying, is it not, that dead men carry no tales? My capitán reports that all your party were made unable to carry tales—all but you, who were kept alive by my order. And it may be, señor, that you also will lose the power to speak of this matter. Quien sabe?"
The blond man glared but said nothing. The chief went on:
"I have not heard what the señor does for the government. Perhaps the señor does not speak truth. What work of the government could be done so far from the home of the government?"
"Work that your ignorant brain would never comprehend, you son of a snake. Work of knowledge. I am commissioned by the government of Brazil to explore this region with especial reference to its resources, topography, and ethnology. By the government, understand? Behind me is the government's army. And if I don't come out the government will send in a force to learn why. And as sure as there's a God in the skies you will pay! Yes, you'll pay!"
"Sí? The government of Brazil is nothing to me, nor is any other. I am my own government. But it seems that I am something to the Brazilian government, or you would not know me by name."
His head lifted and his chest swelled as he continued:
"As the señor says, I am the Son of the Snake. Among my own men I am known as the Jararaca."
The captive stared. Then he laughed scornfully.
"Don't flatter yourself that you're anybody. I never heard of you, you bit of scum. When I called you ‘son of a snake’ I called you what you are, that's all—a dirty crawling thing too vile to live among men. ‘Jararaca’ is right!"
For the first time the chief scowled. Yet he spoke as softly as ever.
"It is unlucky that the señor, who is so wise and important, has not heard of the Son of the Snake. It is still more unfortunate that he speaks so harshly. And the señor spoke of God. He believes in the cross?"
"I'm no Catholic, if that's what you mean."
"Ah. But a Protestant, then? The señor believes in his ‘God in the skies?’”
"Certainly. And in a hell for you, you yellow murderer. You—you—"
Again, with his eyes on the heap of butchered arms and legs before him, he burst into savage cursing of the Jararaca chief and all his men. And again the Jararaca listened as if amused. When the explorer stopped he said:
"The señor has the gift of tongues, is it not so? Perhaps this ‘God in the skies’ speaks through his mouth, yes? And perhaps the señor would like to leave this place and think about his God—even see him, it is possible. There is a quiet place not far from here where a fine gold cross hangs for those who believe in it, and where you may think all night undisturbed—except perhaps by a snake or two. I will send the señor there, and then he will not be offended by a little feast which my men will enjoy tonight.
"But while you are alone, señor, think about this word which I give you:
"Who lives by the cross dies by the snake."
For a moment longer the two fronted each other, the chief grinning, the prisoner scowling and trying to read his words. Then with a sudden wild screech the Jararaca leaped at the bound man.
Clawing, biting, attacking like a mad jungle beast, he knocked the prisoner down and fell on him. The blond man fought back in fury. Though his hands were useless, he did such damage with feet and teeth that soon the Son of the Snake squirmed away and stood up again.
I cocked my gun.
But Pedro, hearing the click, whispered fiercely:
"Wait! No shooting yet!"
I hesitated, burning to kill that chief where he stood. If he had attacked the captive again I probably would have shot—and I probably would not be here now. But I saved that bullet for another day. The Jararaca did not touch the man again.
His black eyes glittering, he laughed, the hiss in his voice louder than before. Then, turning toward the long house, he spoke two words to his men: two words in the Tupi lengoa geral which started us to creeping swiftly away down the hillside—
"Boi euirah. Snake tree."
* * * *
VIII
IF THE gang of the Jararaca had not been intent on what was going on before them we might not have escaped unseen; for we went downhill too fast for good concealment. The little stubs jutting from the ground caught our clothes when we crawled, and stubbed our toes when we arose and flitted from tree to tree; and the trees themselves were not close enough together to hide us well from anyone at the top. But no yell of discovery sounded behind us, and soon we were hidden once more in the bush.
There we started back as we had come, hugging the shore. Neither of us spoke, but the same purpose was in our minds—to reach the assacu tree before the savages arrived there with their captive.
Half-way around the curve of the enseada we paused and peered across the water at the hill. Savages now were at the spot where the canoes lay, and among their ugly faces we made out the lighter skin and blond hair of the prisoner. Men shoved him roughly into a canoe, but no one entered the boat with him. Instead there seemed to be some argument among the warriors, and for the time all hung back.
"None of them wants to go now to the snake tree,” Pedro guessed. “All want to stay here and prepare for the feast of man-flesh. So much the better for us—probably only a few will come with the white man. Let us hasten."
On we went until a thought struck me. I halted so suddenly that Pedro nearly knocked me down.
"Let us cut through to the ygarapé instead of following the shore,” I urged. “It is shorter."
"No! By going the long way we make better speed—we follow the trail we have cut. And I want my machadinha."
I had not thought of the hatchet as a weapon, but now I agreed quickly. Those light, keen, silent machadinhas of ours might easily put two savages out of the fight. During the recent months of the great flood we had whiled away more than one idle hour by throwing them at marks, and had become so skilful at it that either of us could hit a man's head if we tried. Now was the time to try.
So we pressed on toward our camp, where the machadinhas lay with our packs. Now that we were far enough from the hill we ceased caring whether we shook the bushes, and dropped all attempts to move slyly. At top speed we raced over our back track until we stumbled panting into our tambo.
A swift search of our packs, and we were off again, the hatchets in our belts. And from that time on it was a steady, hard run along that never-ending ygarapé, fearing every minute that we should hear the drive of paddles and the swash of canoes overtaking and passing us. We wanted to save that man without shooting, for gunshots would bring the whole tribe of murderers out to hunt us down. But if the canoes caught up with us we must shoot.
At last, however, we burst gasping out upon the bare ground of the knoll of the assacu. Halting, we held our breath and listened until our straining lungs got the better of us. No sound came from the water behind. And you may be sure we did not creep to the edge to look back. Our feet were bare, and we were not sure we knew just where each of those nine buried snake-heads waited with upturned fangs.
"The American wears boots,” said Pedro, his eyes roving up that bare ground.
"Yes. The fangs of snakes—alive or dead—are nothing to him."
"We had best go around to the other side. It is safe there, except that one spot before the jacaré."
Passing close to the bush, yet far enough from it to dodge any lurking snake, we strode around past the bones and on until we looked up at the alligator strapped against the poison-thorns. Then, after poking our guns into the undergrowth and making sure that nothing was coiled at that place, we stepped in and crouched out of sight.
"The day ends,” said Pedro.
It was so. The sun was fast rolling down. Against its glare the great tree loomed black as a nightmare growth, towering over us like an awful giant about to step on us and crush us into nothing. Back in the jungle the dismal roar of a guariba broke out, and from thousands of throats the hammering of frogs swelled into the beginning of the night chorus. Less than a quarter-hour of daylight remained. I began to fear that night would find us still waiting.
Then, so near that I started, grunting voices sounded and water swashed. The barbaros had come.
We heard no bump of canoes against the bank, but we did hear snarling voices and the smack of a blow on flesh. The blow was answered by an angry curse in English. Then up over the crest of the knoll rose a blond head, followed close by other heads greasy-haired and brutal-faced.
The low sun struck across the face of the white man, and we saw that he recognized the assacu as a poison-tree and suspected that it meant death to him. He came straight on without a falter in his step, but his mouth was set grimly and his eyes darted this way and that as if he sought some line of escape. But then the two foremost savages closed in and gripped his arms, one on each side, to prevent any sudden break.
As they did this, one of them started slightly and jerked a foot upward as if something had stung it. He looked over his shoulder at the ground, but saw nothing. So he came on.
Amazon Nights: Classic Adventure Tales from the Pulps Page 29
