That venomous creature had in it poison enough to kill ten men. If its fangs should reach me as well as my enemy I too would be dead before sunset. The Son of the Snake was a dead man now—dead, though yet alive and dangerous. Before long he would be a corpse. And if he succeeded in breaking from me, or even in turning me over to take one stroke from that flat head—
If I had held him hard before, I crushed him now. He lunged, yanked, squirmed in frenzy, but I kept him between me and that awful thing beyond. He tried to scream, but I cut off all sound except a few low wheezes. And again and again he quivered suddenly, and I knew the snake had shot more poison into his back.
All at once he stopped struggling and went limp.
He was not dead, nor even in a faint. Yet he lay like a wet rag. He did not even jump to show that another death-stroke had come to him.
Slowly, very slowly, I lifted my head to see whether the snake had stopped and crawled away. Before my eyes had risen high enough to see I heard a confused sound—a noise of hisses and small struggle. I dodged back, lay listening a moment, then rose again. This time I saw what was beyond us.
Where the jararaca had been was now a squirming, struggling ball. It rocked, rolled slowly over. Out of it stuck the head and neck of the jararaca. The rest of it was a scaly, gleaming mass that shone like blue steel.
Matador, friend of man and foe of jararacas, was out of his basket. That basket had been knocked off the table when it fell. The mussurana, jarred awake and angry, had seen his enemy and attacked.
His enemy was big and fighting viciously; but its death was as sure as that of the man beside me. Even as I looked at them the blue head of Matador shot out and closed like steel nippers on the under-jaw of the other serpent. The poison-snake was caught in a grip that never would loosen until its neck had been ground to fragments.
Then I looked down at the limp, motionless form of the Son of the Snake. Back to me came his words spoken as he had shoved me toward death. And with them came other words said before that.
"Son of the Snake,” I said grimly, “you have said that the jararaca is mightier than the good blue snake. Look now on your mighty snake, helpless and doomed in the jaws of the mussurana!"
And I turned him over, holding a hand clamped over his mouth, and let him look.
"You have said also that ‘who lives by the cross dies by the snake,'” I added. “Hear now this word—
"Who lives by the snake dies by the snake—and the cross shines on!"
He stared up at me, a strange horrid light in his eyes. He made no move. I lifted my hand from his mouth, holding it ready to smother any attempt to yell. But all he did was to gasp for air, breathing in hissing gulps.
I arose and dragged him around to the other side of the table, away from the snakes. He seemed unable to walk. He moved his arms and legs in a weak way, but he stayed limp. He reminded me of a snake with a broken back—the same venomous stare, the same useless movements. Never before nor since have I seen a snake-bitten man act as he did.
It may be that so many fierce bites in his back, so close to the heart—I counted seven wounds later on—had nearly paralyzed him. Perhaps the fangs had even pricked into his spinal cord. Or perhaps the poison and the sudden fearful knowledge of what had come to him caused some sort of stroke in his brain. I do not know. But I do know that he never spoke again. Nor did he ever again stand up like a man.
Beyond the table I dropped him. Bending over him, ready to strike if he tried to scream, I went on:
"Si, the cross shines on. The cross you hung in mockery on a tortured man sent to the poison-tree has struck you down. It led me here. It caused the deaths of your nineteen fellow-snakes on that ygarapé. It will cause the deaths of all the rest of your foul eaters of man-flesh. Even now men march through the jungle to destroy them—men of Coronel Nunes, my comrades, on whose lips you were to put the fangs of that jararaca which struck you in the back.
"I am no man of Yacu, the hater of the cross. There is no Yacu. There are no Blue Snake cannibals. I am a man of Coronel Nunes. And when you and all your tribe are only bones, scattered and forgotten in the jungle slime, the men of Coronel Nunes will travel this land and laugh loud and long at the tale of the Son of the Snake, who dreamed he could destroy the cross."
As before, he made no answer. He stared straight up, breathing in that hissing way. His eyes seemed fixed and glassy. When I moved my head aside his gaze did not follow me. I stood up, stood back from him; and still his eyes did not turn.
How long I stood there watching him, waiting for any word or movement, I do not know. No word came. But movements did. Senhores, he began to wriggle like a snake.
Queer slow serpentine movements started at his neck and went down his body to his feet. Gradually he turned on one side. Still wriggling, he worked himself over on his stomach. He seemed to have forgotten that he had arms and legs. He turned himself only by squirming and working his muscles. And when he lay flat on his breast he began to crawl.
No, not as a man would crawl, using elbows and knees and feet. He tried to crawl as a snake would—by moving its muscles and worming from side to side. His arms dragged uselessly beside him. How he did it I do not know, but he did move forward a little. And as he went he held his head lifted—and he darted out his tongue.
I looked down at his back, swollen with poison. I looked at his snaky crawl, his darting tongue—and I felt cold. Though his body remained human, the thing inside it no longer was human—no, nor demon either. It was a snake, creeping on its belly—nothing more.
I touched its side with my foot. It curled around as if trying to go into a coil. It lashed with its teeth at me. I sprang back as if it were a snake in body as well as in mind. It lay there a few seconds in that twisted position. Then it straightened out. Its head dropped. It was still.
When I touched it again—this time with the point of my machete—it did not stir. When I pushed the head over and looked into the face I saw no life. No life was left.
The Jararaca, Son of the Snake, priest-murderer, woman-killer, torturer of Christians, who boasted that neither man nor God nor devil could overcome him, had passed out with his face in the dirt.
* * * *
XX
A FEW feet away, the other jararaca—the real jararaca of the bush—also had met its death.
Its head already had disappeared into the jaws of Matador, who lay straight on the floor, his mouth wide, his neck bulging as he drew into himself the writhing body of his foe.
I looked from the good blue snake to the evil thing at my feet. Matador's enemy was dead, and so was mine. Now we both must return to the bush. But between us and safety waited nearly seventy man-eating savages.
I listened. It seemed that those savages ought to be tearing at the wall to get at me. But no sound came from the other room.
I stepped to the door, put an ear to the crack, listened again, and heard only the voices of men grunting in casual talk.
The fight between me and the Son of the Snake, though fierce, had been quiet. I had fought silently, had let no sound escape from my enemy, and had kept him from striking the walls. The table, hitting on solid earth when it overturned, had made little noise. The men outside had no suspicion that all was not well with their chief. I might yet escape.
At once I began seeking a way out. I found none. No door, nor even a window, opened outward from this room or the den of the snake. Light came in from high wall-slits and roof-holes, but nowhere was any opening big enough for me to pass through. So I drew my machete and started to dig a hole under a wall of the snake-house, intending to tunnel under the palm-logs and creep out that way.
But I did not dig long. The plan was not good. There must be men around the house, and in broad daylight I should have scant chance of escape. To wait until night was out of the question, for before that time the cannibals would be uneasy about their master's long silence and suspicious because he did not eat. Something whispered to me that my best hope lay in bold
ness. A bold front had brought me into this place; it might get me out again.
So I put back the dirt I had dug. I barred the door of the pen. I stood the table where it had been before, placed the upset chair on its feet, laid the atura on it, and eyed Matador. He was coolly swallowing away, his bulge growing longer as the jararaca gradually shortened. I had half a mind to put the pair of them into the snake-house and leave them, but decided against it, for it seemed like abandoning a friend in the midst of enemies. If I succeeded in getting away he would go with me.
Turning from him, I lifted the dead man and laid him in his hammock. I turned his face toward the wall and arranged him so that he sprawled as if in drunken sleep. I picked up the revolver, shoved it into my right-hand pocket, and lifted the jug. Some rum still remained. I drank. Then I put the jug back on the ground beside the hammock, and near it I placed the gourd from which the Son of the Snake had drunk. After that I made up my pack again.
When that was done I walked all about the room, looking carefully at everything to make sure that no sign of a conflict remained. Finding a jar of water in one corner, I washed the dirt and sweat of fight from myself. Then I put back into my hair the feathers which had been knocked out during the struggle. Last of all, I lifted the two snakes together and put them into the atura. Matador did not like it, for his meal was only half down. But I had given him all the time I could. Now we must get away as fast as possible.
Unbarring the door, I swung it partly open and slouched carelessly against it. The talk stopped. The savages all turned toward me. The ugly club-man, standing near, slipped forward and confronted me.
I gave him a glance, then straightened and looked past him until I found the scarred face of Anta. To him I raised a hand and beckoned. At once he came forward, shoving aside the club-man as he reached the door, and faced me with a cold stare.
"Anta,” I said, “the mighty Jararaca sleeps."
With that I hiccoughed, staggered slightly, and grinned in a foolish way. Anta's eyes narrowed. He sniffed. He had caught the reek of rum on my breath—which was just what I wanted him to do.
"He sleeps,” I repeated, with a drunken wink. “See."
And I stepped back.
He peered around the edge of the door. He saw the sprawling figure, the jug, and the gourd. He looked long at the jug, then up at his chief. I hiccoughed again and went on.
"The great Jararaca and his men now are the brothers of Yacu and the Blue Snake fighters. I go back to Yacu with his message of brotherhood. Soon, Anta, there will be work for us to do together. Much fighting.
"Now the Jararaca is tired from much talk. He orders that no man disturb him. Any man who does awake him will be sorry."
He nodded slightly. Probably he had seen more than one man made sorry for angering the chief. He himself did not think it wise, I noticed, to approach that hammock. It was well for him that he did not; for if he had I would have sent him after his master, even though I died the next instant under the weapons of his men.
"The Jararaca and I are comrades,” I added in a boasting tone. “Did Anta see his chief lay an arm about my shoulders when the Jararaca told of the power of his men?"
He nodded again. He looked once more at the jug, then at me, swaying as if I had taken drink for drink with the Son of the Snake. I thought a grim smile showed in his eyes. Without turning, he moved a thumb toward the outer room and muttered—
"Walk straight."
Savage though he was, he was a good enough captain to wish his men to be ignorant of the drunkenness of the commandante. I straightened as if offended, replying—
"A man of Yacu always walks straight."
Quickly, yet without too much haste, I slung pack and basket and followed him out of the door. He softly shut it. Down the aisle we went side by side. In the middle of the room he stopped and grunted three names. Three men stepped forward. To these he gave the command that all be kept quiet. The three turned away and went among the others. They were the sargentos.
Without orders, eight men followed behind me and Anta. They trailed us to the door and outside, down the hill, and to the canoes. Still without orders, they manned an ubá and pushed it out. I got into the small canoe in which I had come, stowed my pack and basket, and took up the paddle.
"Farewell, Anta,” I said. “Soon we shall meet again."
He grunted something. I shoved out. The ubá stroked beside me. Down the bay we swung to the lagoon. There the war-boat stopped. With no further word I turned eastward and paddled off as if hastening away on my long back-trail to Yacu.
Not until I had reached the end of the lagoon and rounded the turn did I look back. I knew I was watched. As soon as the bush swung in between me and the barbaros I stopped paddling and got ashore, where I spied back to see whether I was followed. The ubá still floated at the mouth of the bay. Soon it drew back and was gone.
Back in my canoe, I paddled on for some distance. Then I turned into a bushy cove and again went ashore. There I would stay until dark, when I could sneak back to my camp. And there I decided to let the blue snake go.
"Matador meo,” I said as I opened his basket and slid him and his partly swallowed prey out on the ground, “I give you the best thing in life—freedom. Good hunting to you, amigo! May you live a thousand years and kill a jararaca every day."
Matador made the only answer he could. He gave a gulp, and another inch of jararaca slid out of sight.
* * * *
XXI
AN HOUR after dark I was in my tambo. No sound had come from the enseada as I passed it, and I believed the secret of the Jararaca's sound sleep still was undiscovered. But I knew that soon after the next sunrise it would become known, and the noon must not find me here. The cannibals would comb the bush for me; and though most of them would go eastward, trying to find where I had gone ashore and then trail me on land, others might work westward and find traces which would lead them to this camp.
So, toiling by the dim light of a carefully concealed fire, I got together everything left behind by Pedro and made a new pack of food for myself. Then, with the gold crucifix hung around my neck, I got into my hammock and slept.
At dawn I was up and loading the canoe. A hasty breakfast, a pulling up of the poles of the tambo, and the camp was a camp no more. The mists had not yet burned away when I shoved out from shore and paddled swiftly away down the ygarapé.
At the end of the winding waterway I hid the canoe in one place and the spare equipment in another. Then I took the course by which Pedro and I had come southward and by which he and the blond American had gone back. Traveling light and fast, I pushed on all day without a pause to eat. And as I tramped, bending a little forward and naked to the belt-line, the cross swung from side to side before my chest as if it too were glad to get away from the accursed place I left behind.
Late in the day I halted suddenly. Not far ahead sounded the rustling, sloshing noise of men marching through a watery piece of bush. Low voices muttered. The sound was coming straight toward me. At once I slipped away from the trace and behind a tree, whence I watched with rifle ready. The men were marching fast. I had hardly concealed myself when the first moving form came into sight. Half a dozen more strides, and his face became clear. I lowered my gun. The leader was Pedro.
"Alto lá!” I called softly.
He halted so suddenly that he slipped. His gun-muzzle jumped at me. Then, as I stepped out, he dropped it and grinned.
"God bless your ugly face, old cannibal-lover!” he cried.
And as I came within arm's length he slapped my shoulder hard.
"How come you here so soon?” I asked. “I expected to have to wait days longer for you."
"We have traveled hard. We got ashore today. Look at the bandidos behind."
I was already looking at the “bandits,” as he called them. Grim-faced, belted with cartridges, armed with rifles and machetes, all bearing solid packs, they surely looked ready for battle and sudden death. Yet all were seringue
iros like ourselves; all friends of ours and men of the coronel.
Only the few nearest us could see me because of the thickness of the bush, but the word was being passed back. Grins and hearty low greetings came from the men close by, and farther back hands rose among the leaves and waved to me, I suddenly realized that all had feared they might not find me alive.
"How many?” I asked.
"Twenty-two. All we could find quickly."
"Twenty-two against sixty-eight,” I muttered. “We should have more, but—"
"But these twenty-two are better than twice sixty-eight barbaros,” he cut in. “And besides these men we have a trick in our bag. Indeed, I brought the men only to work the trick. Wait, old snake-eater, and see us blow those cannibals to hell!"
"Nothing would suit me better,” I told him, “But where is the American senhor? I do not see him."
"He walks last."
He gave me a slight wink, and I understood. The American was guarding against any loafing at the rear. And Pedro had hardly spoken when a word came up the line. Grinning, the man behind Pedro reported—
"The North American asks if you are paralyzed, and if not, why are you spending the day here?"
We chuckled. And I said: “He is right: we are losing time. Talking can wait. Twenty minutes’ march from here is a dry place where we can make camp. Let us go."
So I turned back, leading the way, with the gold cross swaying now at the head of a band of straight-shooting, hard-stabbing seringueiros marching to storm the stronghold of those who mocked it.
An hour later we were in camp for the night. Shelters had been thrown together, hammocks slung, food eaten, pipes and cigarettes lit. Around a good fire which we made no effort to hide—for there was little chance that the barbaros would find us there that night—my comrades squatted and listened while I stood and told of all that had passed since Pedro left. When I finished, the American sat scowling.
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