Da Silva shrugged. “I don't know. Ninety or a hundred miles, something like that.”
Wilson sat up, shocked. “Only ninety or a hundred miles? I thought we'd come a thousand at least. I had it all figured out that the big secret up here was Memphis, Tennessee, and that we'd come on it any day.”
Captain Freitas took his pipe from his mouth and spat. “You don't go far in one day in the jungle. And we've been lucky. The four ahead cleared a lot of spots; otherwise we'd have trouble gaining on them.”
Wilson was discouraged. “Only ninety miles? They couldn't have anything this close. We probably still have a long way to go.”
“I don't think so,” Da Silva said slowly. “Ninety miles is a long way in this country.”
“Well,” Wilson said, rising and heading for his hammock, “I just hope we're trailing the right gang. I still have the feeling that these boys are just on their way home to Memphis. Probably took a wrong turn after leaving the Elks’ Club.”
They packed up the following morning, scattered the fire as usual, and started off on the trail in their accustomed fashion. Their progress was steady through the forest, their constant forward movement completely normal. Machetes swung, mosquitoes bit, feet tramped over log and around bog and through brush. So natural had their routine become that the first distant sound of gunfire did not register on their minds. It was not until the faint echo was followed immediately by a second that realization struck. With one accord they stopped, frozen, and then slowly swung about, listening intently.
Almost as if they had practiced the maneuver they turned, rifles held at the ready, each facing a different direction; but the forest was now still and the cries of birds in the treetops above were usual and reassuring. They closed in on each other, backing up silently, their eyes searching each surrounding leaf for signs of human life. There was none.
Da Silva spoke in a tense whisper over his shoulder, his eyes continuing to inspect the tangled brush about them.
“Gunfire. You two lay over in the brush out of sight. I'm going to take a look ahead.”
As soundlessly as possible he laid down his gun and machete, swung his pack from his shoulder, and placed it on the ground. Then he grasped his rifle tightly once again. Captain Freitas bent silently and picked up Da Silva's pack; holding it easily, he backed into the thickets to one side and lowered his huge body out of sight. Wilson followed; Da Silva was already moving forward as the stocky man joined the captain in the concealment of the brush.
Da Silva dropped to his knees, searching the jungle ahead for any sign of movement, and then slipped forward, squatting. He hesitated one moment, laid his rifle aside, and twisted to take his revolver from its holster. In the dimness of the tiny glade the two hidden men could see his broad shoulders edging forward. Then he dropped lower and disappeared, seemingly swallowed by the jungle.
The two men in the brush waited tensely, all senses alert. Wilson, covered with vines, could smell the dank rot beneath him. His hand gripped his rifle tightly; his eyes were fixed on the spot where Da Silva had vanished. There was a sudden sound from above. He looked up to see a shadowy figure glide easily from one branch to another and then pass on. Lord, he thought, keep this house safe from tigers. The thought made him grin and he relaxed a bit. While You're at it, Lord, he added silently, You might also keep this house safe from fire ants, spiders, snakes, ocelots, tapirs, and little men with guns.
Fifteen agonizing minutes passed. Wilson turned and placed his mouth against the large captain's ear.
“I'm going after him,” he said in a low voice.
There was a brusque shake of a head. The captain clamped a huge hand on Wilson's arm. Wilson subsided.
The minutes dragged by, each bearing the possibility of disaster. Then suddenly they heard a shot in the distance, faint but clear, and then a second and then a third. Wilson was on his feet.
“Come on!” he said quietly, and started forward.
But even as the two men came to their feet the brush across from them waved and Da Silva came crawling through. He jumped to his feet, motioning them to silence with an upraised hand. They came up to him.
“Come on!” he said quietly, his voice tight with excitement, his dark eyes shining. He swung about. “Who's got the binoculars? I'll show you something you've never seen before.” He started to move off and then stopped. “Leave the packs; we'll be back for them. And no noise. Come on!”
He hung the binoculars around his neck and dropped down. The other two followed suit. Then as silently as possible they slithered through the brush. Dry rot crumbled beneath their wriggling bodies; branches were pushed aside and large leaves held back so the others could pass. A small gap appeared in the net of liana that barred their way.
Da Silva paused, twisted, and whispered over his shoulder.
“One at a time here, and keep down.”
They crawled through, pulling themselves by their elbows, hugging the damp earth. Light suddenly struck them, almost blinding in its intensity. They were out of the forest, under the open sky. A stand of high reeds faced them; beneath their faces water was lapping—clear black water.
“Spread out a bit,” Da Silva said quietly. “Don't disturb the reeds more than a bird or an animal might disturb them.”
The three eased themselves into position side by side, inching their way into place, holding their breath. A sudden burst of rifle fire came. They froze, automatically looking at Da Silva: he was calmly lifting the binoculars to his eyes. The other two turned back, slowly spreading the reeds apart to peer through. Wilson caught his breath and then turned his head to stare at Da Silva wonderingly: the swarthy man was studying the far shore through the glasses, an intent expression on his face.
They were on the bank of a wide river. Across from them, separated by approximately a quarter of a mile of water, was a large clearing, and in the clearing were a number of elliptically shaped huts. The walls had been constructed of palm trunks woven with fronds, and the roofs were thatched with the same fronds. The main hut was enormous-at least fifty feet long and set well apart from the others, which were along the riverbank. The two end huts touched the forest, as if they had been posted there for sentinels. Along the narrow sand beach a row of primitive canoes had been drawn up. Three or four Indians, dressed in saronglike costumes, were spread along the bank firing rifles into the river. As the three hidden men watched, they saw the sudden convulsion of an alligator as it was struck. The Indians on the bank laughed and jumped up and down; the successful marksman held his rifle high in the air in triumph.
Beyond the beach, between the long low houses, fires were burning and Indian women dressed in saronglike dresses tied over one shoulder were stirring large black metal pots. Naked children were running about in play, and some men were also seated about the fires, apparently weaving baskets, The scene seemed very peaceful.
Captain Freitas drew his breath in sharply. “Jivaros!” he said tightly.
Wilson stared across the wide river. “They certainly don't look wild,” he said in a low voice. “They're wearing clothes, and those huts are well built. They look civilized.”
“They look it, but they're not,” the captain said quietly. His eyes narrowed. “No wonder the other Indians in this region have been leaving. I wonder how many heads they have in those huts.”
Wilson turned his head. “You expected this, didn't you, Zé?”
“Of course I expected it,” Da Silva said shortly. He was lying with his eyes glued to the binoculars. “But forget the Indians for a minute. Look beyond them, over the village.”
They stared past the wide clearing. In the background the tangle of jungle seemed to resume, to spread in the far distance to a stand of trees marking the wall of the forest. Between the village and the forest a wild interlacing of various shades of green could be seen.
“All I can see is jungle,” Wilson said.
Da Silva took the binoculars from his eyes and grinned. “That's because you weren't b
orn with twenty-magnification vision.”
“My whole family was that way,” Wilson said. “Nearsighted. Let's have those glasses for a minute. I bought a ticket for this show, too.”
Da Silva handed them over. He wiped sweat from his forehead as the stocky man put the binoculars to his eyes and started to adjust the lenses. There was a moment's silence; then Wilson barely suppressed a whistle.
“It can't be!”
“What do you see?”
“Wait a minute! Four, five, six ... Damn these things!” He twisted a knob on the binoculars. “There, that's better. Seven, eight...” He pulled the glasses from his eyes and stared across the river without them. “I saw it, but I don't believe it.”
Captain Freitas took the glasses while the other two continued to stare across the village. He adjusted them and swung them first to the opposite bank. The Indians there had wearied of their sport of shooting alligators; one of them disappeared to return a moment later holding a small dog by two legs. Even at the distance the two men without the glasses could see the animal struggle and hear its high, terrified yelping. The Indian lifted it high and flung it as far as he could into the river. The animal started for shore at once, battling the strong current, its small paws paddling desperately, but before it had been swimming for more than a few seconds the water about it seemed to boil. It disappeared in a frenzied thrashing of water. The captain's jaw was tight.
“Piranhas!” he said. “Thousands of them!”
He shifted the glasses back to the village and over it. His thick fingers twisted knobs to bring the scene into focus; a deep frown wrinkled his forehead.
“Airplanes... ?”
He pulled the glasses from his eyes. The three men stared at each other.
Wilson broke the silence. “Let's get away from here and talk this over.”
“Right.” Da Silva tilted his head, took one last look across the wide river, and began edging his way backwards.
They crawled through the gap in the forest wall one by one, taking their time, each move controlled and steady. The dimness of the deep wood after the brilliance of the open sky caused them to stop a moment on the far side until their sight had become accustomed to the gloom. Then they moved quickly back to their packs.
In silence they left the tiny glade, threading their way deep into the thickest part of the forest. This time the captain brought up the rear; his sharp eyes noted the signs of their passing and his huge hands brushed vines back into place and bent fern fronds to hide their trail. Da Silva led the way further and further from the village.
Two hours passed before he judged they were at a safe distance. He swung his pack to the ground and sat down on a fallen log.
Wilson dropped down beside him, reaching for a cigarette, but Da Silva clamped a hand over the other's. “No smoking,” he said quietly. “And no fires. They may have guards on this side of the river, and some of these Indians can smell smoke an incredible distance.”
Wilson shrugged. “I always wanted to break the filthy habit anyway,” he said. He stared at Da Silva curiously. “You knew about the river and the Jivaros. How?”
“The Jivaros were the natural answer,” Da Silva said slowly. “Bailey stumbled on this airfield they were put here to guard, and they killed him. The shrunken head—the coca leaves—everything pointed to a Jivaro group being in this area.”
“But how about guessing there'd be a river?”
Da Silva shrugged. “They had to get here somehow. They certainly didn't come down the Japurá or the Rio Negro. We'd have heard from every way station and clearing if Jivaro families had passed. So they had to come by a river we never heard of.” Despite the immediate problem, his eyes glowed. “Think of it! A great unknown river, going up through the jungle clear to Peru! Someday I'd like to explore it.”
“Without me,” Wilson said flatly. “My next exploration is going to be conducted on paved streets and will probably consist of seeing how many Rio clubs I can cover in one night.” He shook his head. “Well, now that we've gotten the big questions out of the way, let's get down to the minor ones. Like what's an airfield doing up here in the first place? If it's a local flying club, I have to admit they certainly picked a spot out of the high-rent district.”
“That's what we've got to find out,” Da Silva said quietly. He picked up a twig and sat twisting it while he thought out loud. “We have to get across the river somehow.”
“If we go far enough upriver we can build a raft and float across,” Captain Freitas suggested. “We would have to cross over well above the village.”
Da Silva looked up, interested. “How about tools?”
“For a raft?” The captain shrugged. “All you need are fallen logs and vines. And we can cut those. We can do it.”
Wilson looked at the two of them. “We'd have to go far enough upstream. I'd hate to drift past those sportsmen in the village. They seem to delight in shooting at moving targets.”
Da Silva nodded. “We'll go at least five miles up from here.” He pushed himself to his feet and reached for his pack. “Let's go.”
Wilson arose with a sigh. “More important,” he said softly, “let's come back.”
Faca Alameida poised himself for a second and then dropped heavily to the ground from the wing of the long, low plane. The overhead boughs and leaves placed to camouflage the aircraft threw a mottled pattern of light and shadows down the slim aluminum body of the plane and laid a checkered design across the wedge-faced man. He dusted his hands, nodded abruptly, and proceeded to the next plane, followed by Helio Gomez, who had been in charge during his absence.
The thin body swung about. “Gomez, what maintenance, if any, have these planes had since I was last here?”
Gomez shrugged. “Well, you know we don't have any facilities for really proper maintenance. We've managed to keep the batteries alive, and we've tried to keep as much mold away as possible. Which isn't easy up here,” he said darkly. Then he continued the report. “The engines haven't turned over, of course; we'd blow the camouflage away if we tried that. Well have to give them a good warming-up before we leave.” He stared at the undercarriage of the plane with a frown. “I hope we don't have any blowouts on takeoff; that's the thing that worries me the most. This tropical climate plays hell with rubber. We've kept turning them, but even so...”
“Well, they only have to get us off the ground once.” Alameida reached up, curling his fingers about the leading edge of the low wing. “Give me a hand up, will you?”
The detailed inspection continued. When the last plane had been studied, the thin man dropped to the ground, bent to look at the wheels, and then straightened up, nodding.
“They'll do. They'll have to.” He looked at his companion. “How many crews have come in?”
“Six so far. Chiquinho and the boys from around Mello's came in yesterday.”
“Good. I'd like to talk to them.”
The two men crossed the dusty clearing, Gomez leading the way. They ducked beneath wings and around fuselages until they came to the plane sheltering the ex-mate of the river steamer. A canvas had been slung from the wing to the ground, offering cover from the hot sun; four young men were seated there, playing cards. They looked up as Alameida and the smaller Gomez approached. At sight of the thin man they laid down their cards and came to their feet. He came forward, smiling.
“Hello, boys. Glad to see you made it. How was it coming across?”
“Not too bad,” Chiquinho said. He grinned. “A lot easier than when we went out.”
“That's fine. Well, go back to your game. We'll have a meeting tonight and I'll tell you all the schedule and the plans.” The small eyes suddenly narrowed: the high forehead wrinkled in a frown. “By the way, where's Rudolfo? Didn't he come with you?”
The ex-mate of the river steamer stared at him, his grin fading. “He ... he's dead.”
“Dead? How?”
Chiquinho swallowed nervously. “When we were leaving, one of the passen
gers on the steamer decided to follow us. Rudolfo jumped him and—well, this fellow broke his neck.”
“Rudolfo jumped him? The idiot!” The small eyes suddenly focused on the nervous young man before him. “And just where were you during all this?”
“I was there.” The young voice sounded a trifle sullen. “It was dark. I hit this man with my revolver—”
“Hit him? Did you—wait a moment!” The wedge-face was thrust forward belligerently. “You say he decided to follow you. Why? Who was he? Do you know?”
Chiquinho shook his head. “I don't know. There were two of them traveling together. They were going to hunt up around—”
The black look on the thin man's face stopped him. “Two men?” Alameida reached over; his fingers wound themselves viciously in the young man's shirt. The other three men pulled back nervously. “Who were they? What were their names? Well—answer me, damn it! Was one of them named Da Silva? José Da Silva?”
Chiquinho tugged back, staring at the livid face across from him; his face was white. “I ... I don't know their names-either one. The one I hit was dark, almost Indian-looking. He had a heavy mustache, and his face was pock-marked.”
Alameida released him with a curse. The young man staggered. “Idiots! I'm surrounded by idiots!” He stared at the pale younger man intently. “You say you hit him with a revolver. How hard? Did you kill him?”
“I don't know. I ... I hit him pretty hard, but—well, I didn't wait to see.” He looked down at the dusty ground, his face sweating not alone from the heat. “I may have killed him. Why?”
But Alameida had already turned away; his bony hand reached for the sleeve of Helio Gomez. “Gomez! A double guard at all points! From now until we're ready to move! I'll talk to the shaman myself. I want Jivaros to backtrail Chiquinho and the others at least a day toward Mello's. And I want Jivaros along those riverbanks with guns—if the animals haven't used all their ammunition shooting monkeys!” He took a deep breath. “Da Silva! That filho de mãe sem vergonha... !"
The Shrunken Head Page 12