The small man hesitated, the combination of fear and respect for authority etched across his brown face. “I know you are policemen after these men. Are they bad men? Really bad?”
“We have reason to believe they might be.”
Mello's eyes shifted to Captain Freitas. The huge figure leaned forward. “Where did they go?”
“You are my friend. I will tell you.” The little man returned to Da Silva, as if recognizing him as the leader. “They went into the jungle. They left from here. Their canoes are there.” He pointed.
Da Silva swung to Wilson, his weariness dropping away in his excitement. “Bingo! Ganhamos no milhar! Get back there and start getting our gear down. This is it!”
He grasped the small Senhor Mello by the arm, leading him up the path; the large captain followed.
“Start at the beginning,” Da Silva said. “How many there were, where they left from, what they carried...”
“There were four. They each had packs on their backs, like the soldiers carry, not like the seringueiro. They had rifles and revolvers—and matchetes, of course.” His tone indicated that in the jungle they would have been undressed without machetes. “There is a trail that leads from my clearing into the jungle. It is free of liana for four hundred meters, more or less, where we have cut wood. That's where they went.”
“Where does it lead?”
The little man shrugged. “I wouldn't know. It doesn't lead anywhere; just into the jungle is all. I've never been in there.”
“And when did all this happen?”
“Yesterday morning, just after you left. They came from across the river in three canoes. They were here less than an hour before they struck into the forest. They were all prepared.”
Da Silva nodded. “We'll leave you a gun and sugar and anything else you might need. Don't worry about that.” He turned to the captain, standing at their side. “Captain Freitas, when you get back to Manaus you might carry a message for me.”
The huge captain stared at him. “When I get back to Manaus?” His eyebrows lifted. “Do you mean you plan on going into the jungle after these men?”
“Of course.” Da Silva sounded almost impatient.
“Just you and this ... this American?”
“Well...”
Captain Freitas snorted. “José, I have no doubt that in Rio de Janeiro you could successfully trail a streetcar back to the carbarn—but in the jungle? Please!” He held up his hands to indicate the preposterousness of the suggestion. “I will go with you, of course. It is ridiculous to think of you two alone in the forest. You would be lost. You wouldn't get two kilometers.” He studied the bandaged head and made a careful calculation. “One kilometer.”
Da Silva nodded at him. “Well, if you insist. The more the merrier.” He looked about. “We have a lot to do. Let's start making up our packs.”
“Good!” The large man tipped back his marine cap with a thumb, turned in the direction of the path, and then suddenly paused to look over his shoulder at Da Silva. A grin crossed his face. “I'm just a stupid sailor,” he said. “Tell me ... what would you have done if I hadn't made you the offer?”
“Kidnapped you, of course,” Da Silva said, and laughed out loud. “Well, you did make the offer, so don't complain. Let's get going.”
They worked late, arranging their gear and preparing to leave at the light of dawn. The native women were broiling river fish over the cooking fire; the aroma made them all realize that they had not had a decent meal in days. They interrupted their tasks to eat, squatting about the fire. The sounds of the darkening jungle behind them lessened as the animals and the birds went to their restless sleep.
The meal finished, they returned to their preparations. Wilson was sitting cross-legged by the dwindling fire, cleaning their revolvers and rifles. The captain had brought their hammocks up from the small steamer and slung them between trees; he was now crouched beside Wilson, polishing machetes in the flickering light of the fire. A native woman, breasts bared almost proudly, was spreading netting over their hammocks. Da Silva lit a cigarette, drew in deeply, tucked the cigarette in one corner of his mouth, and started drawing the straps tight about the full packs.
Wilson looked up. “You know what we forgot? Blowguns and curare.”
Da Silva smiled across the fire at him. “I'm old-fashioned. I'll stick to knives and guns.”
Captain Freitas looked up thoughtfully at this conversation. He finished the last machete, laid it to one side, and pushed himself to his feet. He disappeared in the darkness in the direction of the wharfed steamer to return in a few minutes carrying a small sack. He deposited it in Da Silva's lap.
Da Silva looked up. “What's this?”
“Grenades.”
“Grenades? Where on earth did you get grenades?”
Captain Frietas shrugged. “We use them sometimes to get clear of floating grass.”
Wilson slid a bolt into a rifle with a snap, laid the weapon down, and picked up another. “I'm glad nobody thought of bringing along a battleship,” he said, “because I can guess who would have to lug it around. I just hope we have room for food with all this armament.”
Da Silva grinned. “The eternal problem of the righteous: food or bullets.” He laid the small sack with the packs and came to his feet. “We'd better get some sleep. We've been up a long time, and we probably have a lot of traveling ahead of us.”
Wilson got to his feet and walked to his hammock. He turned his head and stared at his swarthy friend seriously. “What do you think we're going to find in there, Zé?”
Da Silva shrugged. “I don't know.” His eyes dwelled a moment on their packs and his jaw hardened. “But one thing I do know is that we're going to be better prepared for it than Bailey was.”
“Let us hope,” Wilson said softly, and swung himself into his hammock.
The other two also climbed into their hammocks and drew their netting close. The fire winked and wavered, dying down. The noises of the jungle abated as they fell into exhausted sleep.
Morning found them squatting about the fire drinking steaming coffee strengthened with farinha meal. It made a sort of hot coffee-tasting gruel. Both Wilson and Da Silva found it tasty and filling, although Wilson commented that it was the first time he ever had to pick his teeth after coffee. Senhor Mello appeared from the main hut as they were finishing and waited gravely as they buckled on their packs.
Da Silva held his hand out to the serious little man. “Goodbye,” he said.
“Until we meet,” the little man said solemnly.
The three bent down to grasp their machetes, waved with them, and then started down the narrow path that led to the forbidding fortress of towering trees that seemed to crush against the small clearing. The net of liana that faced them had been breached at the end of their path, but the twisting vines had already begun the work of reclosing the gap, winding tendrils about the closest trunks and reaching blindly across to lock themselves once more into a continuous mesh. The three turned for one last wave to the silent figures in the clearing and then plunged through the narrow opening one by one. The forest closed about them.
Morning mist still hung in fleecy strands about the upper branches of the huge trees and a dim duskiness hid the morning sun, but they were pleased to find that once they had breached the seemingly impenetrable wall that bordered the tiny plantation the going was easier than they had expected. The trees were separated sufficiently to allow easy passage and leaned over to form a towering bower, a cathedral of light and shadow above the path they trod. The forest floor was soft, a carpet of rotted wood and moldy leaves that had the springiness of a mattress. Fireflies, their tiny lights extinguished, darted about their heads; butterflies of a thousand hues flitted near and then swooped delicately away. Within the forest the sounds of the jungle, so evident from without, seemed to merge with the grandeur of the giant trees and the flamboyancy of the wild flowers to become one with them, natural and fitting.
Only they
, the human interlopers, seemed out of place, puny and mortal against the timelessness and endlessness of their surroundings. Each of them seemed, in his own way, to feel this; they stepped hesitantly at first, as if aware of their intrusion into another world, each secretly surprised at his own temerity. But this feeling lasted only a short time, and the feeling of urgency in their mission and the quickly fading contact with the relatively civilized world of the river and the clearing soon had them swinging along, their thoughts on the secret hidden somewhere in the unknown before them.
Captain Freitas led the way. With a sureness born of his years of experience in the upper Amazon he plunged ahead, his eyes on the path before them, easily marking the crude passage of the four who had passed two days before. He moved swiftly, lithely for a man of his size, his machete held to the ready to cut any bush or vine that blocked their way. Wilson followed closely, with Da Silva bringing up the rear. The trees through which they were threading their way were enormous, a tangled hodgepodge of different species that reached up to the dimness of the distant ceiling above, now intertwining in confused intimacy, now separating as if in recognition that there was, in fact, room for all in that vast region. The denseness of the foliage varied greatly: at places it even seemed to take on the aspects of a meandering glade, a parkland usable for picnics, with wide spaces between the thick trunks and a soft sward between. It seemed hard to believe that they were actually in the jungle of the upper Amazon, treading ground that few white men had ever traversed, or that within the sound of their voices were animals who could bring terror or death at any instant.
But no animals appeared as they beat their way through the brush, although sounds high in the tangled branches overhead occasionally accompanied them for some distance before crashing away in the remote shadows. At one time they came upon a colony of army ants. The undulating flood was about five feet in width and winding its way in a wavering stream from the obscurity of the undergrowth on one side of their trail to the darkness of the brush at the other. The three held up, waiting; but when it appeared that the band was endless they sprang across, hurrying to safety as the huge ants marched evenly past the bodies that had been crushed under their heels.
About ten in the morning they paused to rest, slipping out of their pack straps and seating themselves on fallen logs.
Wilson lit a cigarette and stared about him.
“This is a breeze,” he said lightly. “I'm surprised that Mello, with all the years he's lived here, never bothered to investigate. By the way,” he added, “did you notice the number of women on that plantation? And kids? But I didn't see any men.”
Captain Freitas smiled. He was puffing steadily on his pipe. “Those are Senhor Mello's wives,” he said. “Up here the influence of some of the old Indian tribal customs is more attractive than the word of the church. Or the state.”
“Oh,” Wilson said. “No wonder he never came in here. No time.” He grinned. “That wouldn't do for Zé, here. He's a one-woman man.”
Captain Freitas raised his eyebrows humorously. “Then he's changed.”
“Oh, he's changed,” Wilson said. He smiled and looked around. “I thought this was supposed to be dangerous jungle. It's tougher to get through Central Park on a crowded Sunday.”
“It can be dangerous,” Da Silva said seriously. “That young mate was right when he said that most animals are afraid. They only attack when they are forced to. But when they do...”
“I'll be very polite to them,” Wilson promised.
He pulled himself to his feet and slung his pack over his shoulder. And then he jumped back. In the short time his pack had been on the ground a large snake had managed to curl under it. The serpent raised its head menacingly, angered by the sudden removal of its pleasant cover; then it drew it back. Da Silva's machete flashed, sending the head flying. The body writhed a moment and then slumped, twitching. Wilson stood frozen, his face damp with sweat, his hands trembling.
Da Silva wiped his machete clean on a broad leaf and looked at the shaken Wilson. “Central Park, eh?”
Wilson passed a hand across his brow. “I must have meant Prospect Park,” he said, and swallowed. “Let's get out of here!”
They shouldered their packs and continued through the dim forest, with Captain Freitas still leading. Once or twice the huge man paused and pointed out some discard of the group ahead that made the trail so easy to follow; but in general he padded on without speaking, his unlit pipe clamped between his big jaws. Twice his sharp eyes followed the trail into deep brush; machete swinging, he forced his way through, pausing later to point out signs that demonstrated the passage of the young men in front of them.
They ate their lunch squatting under the broad leaves of a lubuna tree. The dimness of the forest had darkened further and the dappled marks of the sun, straining through the leaves above to fall in little sequin patterns on the forest floor, had disappeared. Even as they ate, the storm came: they could hear the wild beating of the rain high over their heads, an intermittent muffled drumming; but only the steady dripping from the interlaced ceiling of leaves marked the change in weather. The chattering of monkeys became louder, almost deafening, as an entire family of guaribas swung through the branches overhead and passed on, arguing all the way. The dimness lightened; designs of light and shadow appeared on the forest floor once again as the storm left them, whipping treetops to the south.
At three that afternoon they came upon the remains of a fire and found rope marks on trees where hammocks had been slung.
Captain Freitas dropped to his haunches; he rubbed his hand through the ashes and nodded his head.
“This would be their first camp,” he said slowly. “That means we've picked up between two and three hours on them. They wouldn't stop before dusk.” His sharp blue eyes were steady on Da Silva. “How close do you want to get to them, José?”
Da Silva frowned and scratched at his beard. “Not too close,” he said slowly. “We don't know where they're going or how many we'll find when we get there.” He thought a moment. “I'd say we shouldn't stay more than one day behind them at the most, though. That still leaves us a lot more catching up to do. Let's go.”
They resumed the trail, but more alertly now. Their coming on the remains of the campfire had brought back to them once again the fact that somewhere before them in the trackless jungle awaited a mystery whose implications were sinister—and one that had cost four lives already and could easily cost them theirs as well.
They camped that night in a small glade, building their fire in a hollow that held the light to a minimum. Wilson cleared the ground brush back from the flames with his machete while Da Silva slung the hammocks and the captain prepared their meal. They ate silently as the darkness crept over them, each busy with his own thoughts. Their meal finished, the captain cleaned and rebound Da Silva's wound. Then they restrapped their packs, readying them for the morning.
Da Silva leaned back against a tree trunk, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply.
“You know,” he said at last, breaking the silence, “I've been thinking. Do you know what we're going to find when we get wherever we're going?”
“No,” Wilson said. “And neither do you.”
Da Silva smiled. “I know one thing we're going to find. That's a river, and probably a large one. One that isn't on any map.”
The other two stared at him.
“Detecting again?” Wilson asked. “Would you care to enlighten us more stupid ones?”
But Da Silva merely smiled. “You'll see:” he said softly. “A nice wide river. Full of fish,” he added.
Wilson snorted. He got to his feet. “If you're going to dream up a river,” he said, “dream up one full of canoes to get us across. Not full of fish.”
They stirred up the fire a bit and crawled into their hammocks. Stars tried to peek through at them, but the green roof prevented them from doing so. In the distance a cachorro de matto howled at the darkness and then fled to an even greater dar
kness beneath the brush to growl at its dreams. The three slept.
Chapter 9
FOR THE NEXT five days their routine varied but little. Each morning they arose, rolled up their hammocks, drank black coffee prepared with farinha and heated over the coals of the fire, hoisted their packs wearily to their shoulders, and started on. Each noon they stopped and ate dried corn and beans, sitting on a fallen log or on their packs themselves. Each night they hung their hammocks, prepared a fire, ate, and then went to sleep.
Da Silva's head wound was cleaned and dressed nightly; it had almost healed, but Captain Freitas insisted on bandaging it religiously.
Their packs became a normal weight to be carried, like their bodies themselves; it was an odd sensation to straighten up after removing them at night and feel the unaccustomed lightness. Their rifles became a normal extension of their left hands and their machetes a normal extension of their right. Their eyes became accustomed to the constant semidarkness of the forest and their feet carried them automatically around bog patches and over fallen logs and through vine clusters, their machetes swinging without their conscious thought as they cut their way through. Several times they emerged into open glades where Wilson would have sworn they had passed before, but their compasses continued steadily to mark their way to the north-west.
The captain was the most astounding of all, for despite his age and his bulk he moved with the ease of a much younger man. He would pad along at the head of the column, his sharp blue eyes glued to the trail, never wearying, always alert. At night he handled more than his share of the tasks, and each morning he was the first up and had coffee on the fire before the others had rolled from their hammocks.
And each day they came upon the campfire of the group ahead a few hours earlier.
One night as they sat about their own fire, listening to the now-normal sounds of the jungle, Wilson lit a cigarette and leaned back, staring into the flames.
“We ought to be a day behind them by tomorrow night,” he said, and glanced across at Da Silva. “How far do you figure we've come?”
The Shrunken Head Page 11