"Curse it!” he grumbled. “That slimy mutt was my meat. Not that I mourn his death—not much! But I wanted the satisfaction of cleaning up on him myself. Say, are you sure you didn't dream all this, Lourenço? It's a pretty tall story."
"Senhor!" Pedro cried hotly.
And others of my friends growled and looked sourly at Mack. I held up a hand and made my own answer.
"Perhaps it is a tall story, senhor. But if I dreamed, I picked this up while dreaming."
And I threw his revolver on the dirt before him.
"My gun!"
He pounced on it, peered at it, shook it as if rejoicing in the feel of it. Then he stood up.
"Old chap, I beg your pardon. You see I haven't known you very long, and—But I shouldn't have said it anyway."
"It is forgotten, senhor,” I told him. “And do not feel cheated because the Jararaca died before you returned. There are sixty-eight other snake-men, and I think they will give you some action."
"Righto! And they're the ones who butchered my boys. Well, Pedro, I don't see that the situation is much changed.
"That bunch will be just as ready for a scrap as before, if not more so. What Lourenço tells us about the layout of the place changes things a bit, but your big idea still is perfectly good with a few variations. We'll have to tackle them on the water instead of in their fort, that's all."
"I think,” I said, “that it is about time I was told about this big idea."
"And so you shall be,” Pedro promised. “Do you remember that before we came away the coronel had decided to clear off a larger area around headquarters? And that he wanted stumps and all removed from the land?"
I blinked. Then I saw what he meant.
"Por Deus!" I said. “But how can we use that on the water?"
"Leave it to me,” answered Senhor Mack. “Now come here and let's work out the details."
So, while the night life rioted around us and our fellow fighters took their ease, we made our battle plan. And when I went to my hammock I grinned. Pedro's boast, back on the trail, had been no empty threat. I was soon to see the cannibals blown to the hell where they were long overdue.
* * * *
XXII
SOME DELAY was caused by the fact that we had to go after that war-canoe which we had hidden beyond the old camp of Senhor Mack. It meant another night trip and very careful paddling, for the savages now were savage indeed. Their drums thundered angrily through the darkness, and once we caught the dip of paddles and lay quiet a long time before continuing our groping journey. But we had to have that big boat, and we got it.
In the ygarapé, near the poison tree, where we felt sure the cannibals would not come because of their fear of the demon, we built over the bow of the ubá a tough woven basket-hood: a tight, rounded, strongly braced toldo, or cabin, which would stop arrows and stand firm before an air-shock that might tear away anything with a flat surface. This came well back from the bow, but protected the bow only. The rest of the canoe remained as it was.
When this was complete I added the last touch. With the toughest bush-cord I lashed to the front of that hood the gold cross. Our attack was to be in broad day, and I wanted the cross to flash in the sunshine as a maddening insult to the fiends facing it. That was my only thought in putting it there, but it was a good stroke. Some of the men with more religion than I felt that Deus Padre surely would fight with us now. And even Senhor Mack spoke approval.
"Good hunch, Lourenço,” he said. “In a way we're a bunch of crusaders. It won't hurt us any to fight under the sign of our faith, even if some of us aren't over-burdened with piety. For that matter, I reckon any of us is just as good as some of the old-time Crusaders were, if all the tales I've read are true."
At the first ight of the next dawn the ubá and the small canoe filled with armed men. Down the ygarapé they went to the grassy point where the lagoa began. There all but two men got ashore and slipped away into the bush, heading for the point midway down the long curve of the enseada where the guarded path swung into the forest. Their task was to kill the guard silently and then lie low, watching the water, until the battle opened. After that they knew what to do.
The two paddlers brought back the war-boat, with the canoe trailing behind. Again the boats filled, and all our little army was on its way.
Reaching the lagoon, we pushed stealthily through the heavy mist to the mouth of the bay, where we floated to the tongue of land dividing the inner and outer waters. With hardly a sound our mates got ashore and disappeared. Like the men on the other shore, they went hunting the guard who patrolled the path. Leaving the small canoe there, the three of us who were left floated away into the fog, which now was thinning out.
Half of our fighting force now was on each shore of the enseada. When they took their positions they could rake the water with a cross-fire of heavy bullets. On the bay itself remained only three men in one boat—Pedro, Mack, and I. We had rifles, cartridges, and machetes. But those were not all. In a basket just inside the toldo, where they could be reached instantly, rested sticks of dynamite.
In each stick was a short fuse. In each fuse was a match. On the under side of the cabin roof was fastened a piece of sanded paper on which the matches could be lit with one twitch of the wrist. On the end of each stick, covering both fuse and match from dampness, was fitted a thin rubber cap. And as we stroked back toward the lagoon Senhor Mack held one of the sticks in his hand, waiting impatiently for the time to strip off its hood. We had to give our men on each shore time to reach their places, and also to await the vanishing of the fog from the water.
"Remember, now, you've got to hold her steady as a rock when I swing,” the blond man warned. “Heaving from a boat isn't the same as working on solid ground. I'll use the regular bomber's throw—don't have to move my feet, except to turn on my right toe. But I've got to have firm footing. Only let me drop one of these babies and we'll go to hell in a handbasket Steady's the word."
"Steady is the word, senhor,” we echoed. And we paddled on, hugging the shore.
The mist disappeared. Bright sunlight blazed on the water. Anxiously we scanned the bush along the farther bank, but saw no sign of our mates. Then from that shore, well behind us, came a short sound; a noise like a man starting to yell but killed before his voice could gain power.
"There goes the guard,” Mack muttered.
With the words he stripped the rubber hood from the stick he held. Then he knelt and drew other hoods from other sticks.
"All right, boys. Over the top. Let's go."
While he still worked at the basket, we swung out into the middle of the bay and started for the hill of the cannibals.
We made no haste, but we did not delay. With regular, powerful strokes we pushed along to the turn, beyond which we could get our first view of the hill. But when we reached that spot we wasted no time in looking at the stronghold of the barbaros. Something much nearer took our eyes—an ubá heading for the place where that yell had started.
The ubá was not full. Only five men were in it. Probably they had been near the boats and jumped into this one to go and see what the sound meant. I feared that our men hidden in the bush would shoot and spoil our plans. But they had level heads, and they held their fire, though their fingers must have itched on the triggers.
The savage canoe, already near the shore, halted as we swung into sight. It was not more than forty yards away. Its men hung on their paddles and stared at the cross blazing in the sun.
"Rifle work, lads,” said Mack. “Get ‘em."
We got them. Swerving easily, we stopped our boat, picked up our rifles, and let drive. With the first belch of our guns two Indians slumped down; with the second, two more. The last man, howling something, stood up and tried to loose an arrow toward us, but it never left the bow. Our rifles barked together, and he flopped over and was gone.
"Guess that'll wake ‘em up,” the American said. “Yea, verily, I'll say so! Look at ‘em come!"
; Down at the boat-landing a boiling mass of men formed, rushing down from the hill and fighting to get into their own boats. Howls of rage came to us. An ubá swung out and started for us. Two more shot after it. And swiftly others crowded in the wake of the first three.
"Nine canoes,” I counted. “Good! They are all here."
"They have seen that we are only three men,” said Pedro. “Now they race to see who can kill us first."
"The first crew to get us eats us,” I agreed.
Mack, grinning like a blond jaguar, swore and jeered the advancing cannibals.
"That's it; come on, you butchers! We're easy marks—perhaps! Come on and find out how it feels to have your arms and legs ripped off! Yow-eeee!"
His scream echoed down the water as he stooped to the basket.
"Give that first canoe some bullets!” he added. “Slow ‘em up. Get ‘em bunched. Then I'll hand ‘em something."
We shot again—three shots each, fast. The leading boat swerved suddenly, two men pitching overboard. The ubás just behind it backed water, but one struck it. In a moment the war-boats were confused, trying to pass one another, dodging around, their speed broken. From them rose a flight of arrows which thudded into our toldo and plunked into the water around us.
"Here goes!” Mack snapped. “Steady!"
We brought the bow toward the barbaros, held it firm. A match flared. The blond man, standing straight, sidewise to the Indians, held his arms out like a cross. The left dropped, the right darted up, his body twisted at the waist. Up over the cabin, out over the water, a long stick of death rose, curved, dropped.
While we were still stretching our necks to watch it he was up with another match blazing. Another heave like the first; then he snapped—
"Duck!"
With the word he crouched under the toldo. We yanked our arms and paddles inboard, bent ourselves far down. An instant later the whole world seemed to explode.
A blow like that of a great ax swung by a giant struck our boat and knocked it backward. A smashing roar cracked our ears. Another blow—another roar. Then silence.
Slowly we straightened up, blinking at each other in a dazed way. Somewhere far off I heard screaming. And from a great distance Mack's voice came faintly.
"Great guns! Some kick in that nitro! I underestimated it. Can you hear me?"
I nodded, reached over the side, scooped a handful of water, and put it on the back of my neck. My deafness grew less. The screeching came louder. Waves rocked our boat, which had swung broadside to the cannibals. Looking toward our enemies, I found that many of them had disappeared.
Over there the water had turned red. Among the waves bobbed shattered ubás, smashed weapons, and things that looked like chunks of meat—small chunks. No screams came from that place; nothing was left there to scream. The cries came from farther back, where unbroken ubás still floated and savages held their heads as if blinded. Only in the last two canoes were men who still moved. And they were moving away as fast as they could, yelping louder than all the rest, fleeing for their hill.
Mack reached for another stick, hesitated, shook his head. Standing up, he roared:
"Fire! No quarter!"
Rifle shots ripped out from both shores. The two fleeing canoes slowed. Their men toppled, fell forward or back, sprawled over the side. Little spurts of water shot suddenly upward, glittering in the sun. Bullets whined as they glanced off the surface, thumped solidly as they hit the war-boats. Very soon those boats were empty. The firing dwindled to a few pops.
But it swelled again to a crackling roar. The barbaros in the other boats had regained their senses, and some were plying their paddles while others sent arrows curving at the shores. None came at us. None wanted to face again the boat of the gold cross, from which had leaped crashing death. They fought only to get away. But none got far.
Our swift-shooting comrades in the bush swept them with a hail through which no man could pass. A steady rip of gunfire sounded. Then it slackened and died. No living thing, except us three, floated on the enseada.
* * * *
XXIII
A LONG yell of triumph rang back and forth from shore to shore. We began paddling again, moving toward the hill. Through the wreckage and the red water, past bullet-torn canoes filled with dead, and on to the boat-landing we pushed. Our comrades filed from the bush and joined us. Up the hill we trooped, alert to shoot down any enemy lurking there. But the hilltop was bare of life.
"This concludes the morning's entertainment,” Senhor Mack said grimly. “Unless we use the rest of the dynamite on this fort. What say, gents?"
"That was what we brought it for,” Pedro replied.
"True enough. Might as well use it up. There's a bunch of it left in camp. Send some of the boys after it. And have them bring plenty of fuse."
So we picked men to go back to camp in our ubá and bring up the rest of the explosive. Much dynamite had been packed in from headquarters, for Pedro's plan at first had been to plant it around the long house at night and blow house and cannibals to pieces all at once. The seringueiros who brought it had expected to do the work of planting the charges and, if the scheme failed, to do the usual bush-fighting with machete and gun. But when it was learned that the savages were always on guard the plan was changed to the one which we used.
"That cabin of ours was a lifesaver,” the American added. “Without it we'd have been knocked cold. But if you boys want to see a regular blowout wait until we touch off this shebang. And that reminds me. We'll go back to camp by water, and none of us wants to be on this hill when the fireworks blow. There are a couple of war-boats lying idle down at the landing. Be sure you have paddles and everything ready for a quick getaway. Now let's look over this dump."
We went through the empty house, looking at everything and taking whatever was useful. In the room where the Jararaca and I had fought we found that the table had been shoved against the wall, and in the middle of the floor was a low mound of fresh earth.
"If you still doubt that the Son of the Snake is dead, senhor,” I said, pointing to the mound, “you might dig here and see what you will find."
"Not me. What's buried can stay buried unless the dynamite spatters it around, which is more than likely. All the rest are accounted for anyway."
"Except Anta, the fighting captain,” I remembered. “I did not see him today. And the barbaros attacked like a leaderless mob, each crew for itself."
"If your Anta was a stocky man with a scar on his chest and another across his nose,” a man spoke up, “he is down in the bush with two spear-wounds in his back. He has been dead at least one day."
I stared. Then I understood. There was no doubt that the dead man was Anta—murdered by his own men after the death of the chief became known.
We turned away and left the place, each man carrying with him some cannibal weapon or ornament as a trophy. At the outer door Senhor Mack paused, eying some three-foot slabs of thin wood leaning against the wall.
"Hm! Guess I'll take that along as an unwilling contribution to science from the Son of the Snake,” he said, “That's their bush telegraph I told you about. See? Each slab has a cord in it, and they hang four slabs in a sort of framework and then hang up the frame too, so there's no absorption by anything touching it. Then the guy with the bass drumstick—there it is, down on the ground—whangs away on different slabs, getting a different tone from each. The sound will carry for miles. Wish I knew their code, but there's no chance of learning it now. Hullo, there comes the powder-boat."
Gathering up the sticks of talking wood, we went down the hill to meet the ubá returning with the dynamite. When we came up the hill again we bore sticks of a different kind—sticks of destruction.
Senhor Mack himself set the fuses, cutting them in different lengths, and directed the placing of the charges. When all were set he and Pedro went swiftly along with matches, while the rest of us took to the boats. Two ubás started off at once. Soon Pedro and Mack came loping down th
e hill and scrambled into the third boat where the rest of us waited.
"Shove off!” Mack barked.
We shoved, and we kept on shoving. Not until we reached the turning point did we pause. There we held the boats and watched.
Suddenly a black mass heaved up from the jungle. A thunder-clap smashed the stillness. Torn pieces of wood and shapeless blobs of clay filled the sky. Fragments rained down into the waters of the enseada. A wave came rolling toward us, tossing the war-craft of the dead savages like chips. The cannibal hill was blown apart.
On the top of the wave we went out of that bay for the last time. Out on the lagoon we swung toward the ygarapé. But all at once Senhor Mack pointed back.
Swept free from shore by the wave, his little canoe was floating after us; the canoe he had used when his men were alive and loyally working for him.
"Turn back and get that boat,” he demanded. “I'm going back to my camp and put up that cross for my boys."
"Let the canoe drift,” said Pedro. “We will all go down there and give your men burial, and put up a bigger and better cross than you alone could make."
And it was done. Before we returned to our own camp the bones of Mack's men were under earth, each skull topped by a wooden crucifix; and a big cross towered above the spot where they had lived and laughed and fought and died. And when we reached the assacu tree we buried also the bones of the men who had perished there in torment and been kicked down the hill by the barbaros. When that was done, all the victims whom we could find had been laid away like men.
Then I looked at Pedro and Mack. And I said:
"Tomorrow, senhor, our ways part. You, of course, go back to headquarters with the other men. Pedro and I were sent to find new rubber, and we have not yet found it. So we go on."
But they both grinned.
"Guess we forgot to tell you what your boss said,” Mack laughed. “He said that if you cleaned up this gang you'd be doing a much bigger job than merely finding rubber. He also said that unless you came straight back to headquarters to tell him the whole yarn you could consider yourself fired; and that if you did come back he would open a bottle of something smoother than the rum and ginger you took away. Oh, yes, he knows you swiped that jug. So you'd better come in."
Amazon Nights: Classic Adventure Tales from the Pulps Page 36
