The Pathless Trail

by Arthur O. Friel

  CHAPTER XI.

  OUT OF THE AIR

  Again the sun fought the mists of a new day, casting a pallid, waterylight on the livid green roof of the limitless jungle. High up underthat roof, more than a hundred feet above the ground, the morning alarmclock went off with a scream, the sudden chorus of monkeys and macawsawaking after a few hours of silence. Down on the eastern shore of theriver, in a little natural port where the shadows still lay thick, menstirred under their black mosquito nets, yawned, and waited for morelight before starting another day's journey.

  To three of the five men housed under those flimsy coverings the somberhue of their nets was new. On leaving Remate de Males the insect barshad been clean white; and though they had grown somewhat soiled fromdaily handling, they never had approached the drab dinginess of thebarriers draping the hammocks of the Peruvian rivermen. In fact, theirowners had been at some pains to keep them as clean as possible, foldingthem each morning with military precision and stowing them carefully.Wherefore they were somewhat taken aback when informed that nice whitenets were decidedly not the thing in this part of the world.

  "Up to this place, senhores, they have done no harm," Pedro said, beforeleaving the coronel's grounds. "But from here on they will not do atall. The weakest moonlight--yes, even starlight--would make them standout in the darkness like tombstones. A few days more and we shall be inthe cannibal country. And it is an old trick of those eaters of men toskulk along the shore by night, watching a camp until all are asleep,and then sneak up with spears ready. A rush and a swift stab of thespears into those white nets, and you are dead or dying from thepoisoned points. I would no more sleep under a white net than I wouldlie in my hammock and blow a horn to show where I was. Your light netsmust stay here. We will find dark ones for you."

  Thus the voyagers learned another of those little things on whichsometimes hinges life or death. Even McKay, with his experience of otherjungles, had never thought it necessary to drape himself in invisibilityat night. But when his attention was called to it he recognized itsvalue at once, and the white nets were forthwith abandoned.

  Now, on the first morning out from the Nunes place, the three Americansstretched themselves in lazy enjoyment after a night passed without asentinel. The stretching evoked sundry grunts due to the discovery thattheir muscles still were lame. The long steamer journey from their ownland, followed by the daily confinement of the Peruvian canoe, hadafforded scant opportunity for keeping themselves fit, and the suddennecessity for doing their own paddling had found every man soft. Butthey now were hardening fast, and the steady swing of the paddles wasproving a physical joy. These were men ill accustomed to sitting inenforced idleness for weeks on end.

  Matches flared under the nets and cigarette smoke drifted into the air,rousing to fresh activity the mosquitoes humming hungrily outside.Gradually the shadows paled and the weak light reflecting from thefog-shrouded water beyond grew into day. The nets lifted and thebloodthirsty insects swooped in vicious triumph on the emerging men. Butagain matches blazed, flame licked up among kindlings, a fire grew, andin its smoke screen the voyagers found some surcease from the bughordes. Soon the fragrance of coffee floated into the air.

  Tim yawned, coughed explosively, and swore.

  "Fellers can't even take a gape for himself without gittin' these cussedbugs down his throat," he complained, and coughed again. "Gimme somecoffee! I got one skeeter the size of a devil's darnin' needle stuck inme windpipe."

  "A devil's darning needle? What is that, Senhor Tim?" inquired Pedro,passing him a cup of hot coffee. When the liquid--and the "skeeter"--hadpassed into Tim's stomach he enlightened the inquirer.

  "Ye dunno what's a devil's darnin' needle? Gosh! I'm s'prised at ye. Iseen lots of 'em right on this here river. He's a bug about so long"--hestuck out a finger--"and he's got jaws like a crab and a long limbertail a with reg'lar needle in the end, and inside him is a roll o' toughsilk--tough as spider web. And he's death on liars. Any time a fellertells a lie he's got to look out, or all to oncet one o' them bugs'llcome scootin' at him and grab him by the nose with them jaws. Then he'llcurl up his tail--the bug, I mean--and run his needle and thread rightthrough the feller's lips and sew his mouth up tight. Then he flies offlookin' for another liar."

  "_Por Deus!_ And the liar starves to death?"

  "Wal, no. O' course he can git somebody to cut the stitches. But theneedle is a good thick one and it leaves a row o' holes all along thefeller's lips. Any time ye see a guy with li'l' round scars around hismouth, Pedro, ye'll know he's such an awful liar the devil bug got him."

  McKay coughed. Knowlton blew his nose into a big handkerchief. Lourencosquinted sidewise at Tim, who was solemn as an owl. Pedro, his eyestwinkling, bent forward and scrutinized Tim's mouth.

  "You have been fortunate, senhor," he said, simply--and stepped aroundto the other side of the fire.

  "Huh? Say, lookit here, ye long-legged gorilla--"

  Knowlton exploded. McKay and Lourenco snickered.

  "It's on you, Tim!" vociferated Knowlton. "You dug the hole yourself.Now crawl in and pull it in after you."

  Tim snorted wrathfully, but his eyes laughed.

  "Aw, what's the use o' trying to educate you guys?"

  "You swallowed a mosquito just now, but I cannot swallow that devilbug," Pedro grinned.

  Tim rumbled something, solaced himself with a cigarette, then squattedand joined the others in their frugal breakfast of coffee and_chibeh_--a handful of farinha mixed with water in a gourd. When it wasfinished McKay, who never smoked in the morning until he had eaten,filled a pipe and suggested:

  "Guess we'd better plan our campaign. We didn't take time yesterday. Incase we find no trace of the Raposa at the place where you fellows sawhim, what's your idea?"

  Lourenco, puffing thoughtfully, stared into the fire.

  "There will be time enough to decide that, Capitao, after we havevisited that place," he said, slowly. "Still, perhaps it is best to makesome plan; it can be changed at any time."

  For a moment longer he looked at the dying flame. Then, dropping hiscigarette stub into it, he continued:

  "If I were going alone to find a man among the Red Bones, I should gofirst to the Mayorunas and work through them to make sure of a friendlyreception by the other people. I would--"

  "Why, that's the very thing Schwandorf suggested!"

  "Yes? I have not heard what he said. Tell me."

  McKay did so. Lourenco smiled.

  "Sometimes, Capitao, the devil puts into the hands of men a weapon whichis turned against himself. So it is now. That _Allemao_, Schwandorf,never expected you to reach the people you seek, but the plan is good.It would not be good if you followed it exactly as he laid it out, butthings have changed; and what you could not do with Peruvian companions,or alone, you perhaps can do with us. I will show you.

  "It happens that I have been twice among the cannibals living in acertain _maloca_ which I can find again. Perhaps you know that thosepeople live in scattered _malocas_, each ruled by its own chief--"

  "Yes, we know about that."

  "Good. Now if we went to any _maloca_ where we were not known we mightbe killed at once. But at that _maloca_ of which I speak I am known tothe chief and all his fighting men, for I once led them on a raid intoPeru. So they will remember me--"

  "What's that?" Knowlton interrupted, in amazement. "You led a cannibaltribe on the warpath?"

  "Just so, senhor. It is a long story, but these are the facts:

  "There was in Peru a gang of killers, robbers--and worse--who calledthemselves the Peccaries. They raided one of the coronel's camps where Iwas in charge, killed all my gang except myself and one other, and usedus two as slaves and beasts of burden.

  "The other man died from poison. I lived only to revenge myself on thosefoul outlaws. There was much rubber of the coronel's, worth much moneyat that time, in the camp they had raided. So, after driving me like abeast to their stronghold in the hills of Peru, they came back withboats
and Indian porters to get out that rubber.

  "On that return journey I tried to kill the leader, who was called ElAmarillo--yellow-skinned. I failed, and he had me nailed with longthorns to a tree where I might hang in torment for days, dying slowly.See. Here are the marks."

  All three of the Americans had noticed on the previous day that each ofLourenco's hands was disfigured by a scar which looked as if a spike hadbeen driven through. Now he held those hands forward for theirinspection. Then he pulled off his loose shirt and rolled up histrousers. They saw other scars in the big muscles before the armpits, inthe soft flesh under the ribs, in the thighs and calves.

  "The dirty Hun!" Tim grated.

  "That was not all, Senhor Tim. They also put fire ants on me, which bitso cruelly that I nearly lost my mind from pain. Then they went on,intending to have more sport with me when they came back with therubber. But after they left me two hunters of the cannibal tribe who hadbeen following a tapir's track found me and took me down from the tree.

  "Now the Peccaries before this had stolen some women from a Mayoruna_maloca_ and were treating them like dogs--I saw one of those womenbrutally murdered while I was captive in the outlaw camp. I managed totell the two hunters I could lead them to the Peccary stronghold andgive them revenge. They carried me to their _maloca_--I could notwalk--and told their chief what I had said. The chief caused my hurts tobe cured, and then I kept my promise.

  "I guided the savages to the outlaw camp; they surrounded it, and in thefight that followed every Peccary was killed except their leader. Nowthat cannibal chief has not forgotten me--"

  "Wait a minute," protested Knowlton. "Did that Peccary leader escape?"

  "No. He was kept alive until a big herd of peccaries was met. Then,because he called himself 'King of the Peccaries,' he was nailed to atree, as I had been, and told to make the peccaries take out the thorns.The wild pigs tore him into ribbons with their tusks."

  Calmly he donned his shirt again. Tim, staring at him, twitched hisshoulders as if a chill had gone down his back.

  "Ugh!" muttered Knowlton.

  "So now," Lourenco resumed, "if I can find that chief again--he may havebeen killed in some tribal fight before now--he may be friendly to allof us. Or he may not. Savages cannot be relied on with much certainty.But if any of the Mayorunas will help us, he will. It is worth trying."

  "And if he is not friendly--" Knowlton paused.

  "We do not come back," Pedro finished. "Have you a better plan?"

  All shook their heads.

  "Laurenco's idea is excellent," said McKay. "I was thinking along thesame line, though I did not know he had any such friendly relations witha chief. That makes it all the more advisable to try it, unless we findthe Raposa first. We, of course, will not land at the place whereSchwandorf told us to go ashore, seven days from here."

  "By no means," Lourenco concurred. "In five days we leave the river andtravel along the _ygarape_. If we go to the _maloca_ it will be fromanother direction than the river."

  He began preparing to travel. The others also went about the work ofbreaking camp. By the time the canoes were loaded the mists had liftedand the river lay open and empty before them. In the bush around andbeyond, gloom still lay thick and the forest life yelped, howled,clattered, and wailed. But out on the water it was broad day, and faroverhead sounded the harsh cries of unseen parrots flying two by two inthe sunlight above the matted branches. The world of the pathless tropicwilderness, ever dying, ever living, was about its daily business. Thefive invaders were about theirs.

  As the paddlers dipped, however, Knowlton held back.

  "Say, Rod, we didn't tell these fellows about Schwandorf's Indian. Holdup a second, men."

  While all rested on their paddles he spoke of the mysterious messengerdispatched from Nazareth. Pedro and Lourenco contemplated the river,then frowned.

  "That may be of importance, senhores," said Lourenco. "It may changeeverything for us. We saw a lone Indian go past the coronel's place,traveling fast, three days before you came. I would give much to knowwhere he is now and what word he carries. A short man with a bad leftleg, you say. We shall keep watch for such a man. Perhaps we may meethim."

  Wherein he predicted more accurately than he knew.

  The canoes swung out and the paddlers settled into the steady stroke towhich they were growing accustomed. Hour after hour they forged on, theBrazilians adjusting their speed to that of the Americans, who had notyet attained the muscular ease of habitual canoemen. The miles flowedslowly but surely behind them, the sun rolled higher and hotter, thesilence of approaching noon crept over the jungle on either side. Then,as the time drew near when they would land for a more hearty meal thanthat of the morning, Pedro pointed ahead.

  Up out of the bush on the Peruvian shore rose a vulture. It flappedsullenly away as if disappointed. The bushmen, quick to note anythingthat might be a sign, paid no attention to the bird's flight, but markedwith unerring eye the spot whence it had taken wing.

  "Let us cross, comrades, and see what we may see," Pedro called. "Ifnothing is there, we can eat."

  But something was there. All saw it before they landed--the stern of asmall, speedy canoe almost concealed in a narrow rift at the bottom ofthe bank. In the soil of the rising slope were the prints of bare feet.And Pedro, scanning the tracks narrowly after he and the others reachedshore, asserted, "These were not made to-day."

  Up the bank they climbed, silent and watchful. At the top Lourenco tookthe lead. In under big trees the five passed in file. A short distancefrom the edge Lourenco stopped, looking at the ground. The others spreadout and stared at the thing he had found.

  Between the buttress roots of a tall tree was a crude shelter of palmleaves. Before this lay the scattered bones of a man. The skull had beencrushed by a mighty blow.

  The bones were picked clean--had been stripped and torn asunder daysbefore, and the vulture which had just left had gotten nothing for itsbelated visit. Among them were remnants of cloth, a belt and a machete,and strands of coarse black hair. A few feet away lay a cheap "trade"gun. Lourenco inspected the weapon and laid it back.

  "Did he shoot before he was downed?" asked Knowlton.

  "No. The gun is loaded. His death came from above." The bushman ran hiseye up the towering tree, then pointed to a large dark object on theground near by.

  "Castanha--Brazil-nut tree," he explained. "That heavy nut fell andsmashed the Indian's skull like an egg. Indian, yes. His gun, hisshelter, and his hair show that. And"--stooping and pointing at one ofthe bones--"that bone shows who he was. See, Capitao."

  McKay looked down on a leg bone. At some time the leg had been brokenand badly set, if set at all. The bone was crooked.

  "A short Indian with a crooked leg. Schwandorf's messenger!"

  "_Si._ No man will ever receive the message he bore. He camped here daysago. Now he camps here forever."