He swung back to Chiquinho. “Where did these two get on the steamer?”
“Teffé. They came upriver on a plane—one of those neat little sports jobs. They landed in the river near us.”
“And you thought that was perfectly normal!”
Chiquinho attempted to defend himself. “They knew the captain. They were hunters going hunting. Look, I'm sure—”
“You're sure of what? What are you sure of? You were with two strangers for over a day and you couldn't recognize policemen when they were under your nose! Not even when they kill Rudolfo! What are you sure of? That they were really hunters? Going hunting? They were hunting you, you fool! They were probably breathing down your neck all the way across from Mello's clearing!”
He started to swing away in disgust. The nervous Chiquinho shakily thrust a cigarette into his mouth. The movement caught Alameida's eye; he turned back and slapped the cigarette viciously from the slack jaw.
“And we don't smoke near airplanes! Good God! I'm truly surrounded by idiots!”
Chapter 10
ON THE FAR side of the river the three men fought their way west with painfully slow progress. Da Silva refused to withdraw very far from the river for fear it might curl to the north and leave them beating their way inland for precious hours; yet close to the swiftly running water the trees were bound together in the densest kind of jungle growth, hampering every step. Here Da Silva led the way with the tireless Captain Freitas at his side; the two chopped their way steadily through the tangled brush and vine, sweat pouring into their eyes, constantly beset by mosquitoes and tiny black flies whose bite was even more painful. Wilson staggered behind, slashed by the backlash of branches, his face itching from the insect bites, his mind lost in a dream of hot baths and cool sheets.
It was late afternoon when the forest ahead suddenly seemed to lighten; the trees thinned and the brush gave way to thickets of tall reeds. They pushed through cautiously; they were on the banks of a small inlet that led to the main river, a few hundred feet to their right. They paused, panting, studying the terrain, listening to the ever-present sounds of the jungle. There was a sharp plop; they stepped back as a large caiman slipped from the reeds at their feet and slithered into the water.
Captain Freitas eased his pack from his back, laid it down, and lowered himself upon it. He jammed his empty pipe between his big jaws and sucked on it while he looked about and nodded.
“This ought to do,” he said quietly. His eyes skirted the banks of the inlet. “We've come far enough, and we ought to find plenty of logs around. And there's no shortage of vines.”
Wilson let his pack drop and fell on it in near exhaustion. “I like a man who doesn't exaggerate,” he said sourly. “There's certainly no shortage of vines.”
Da Silva laid his pack down and stretched himself beside it, propping his back against a tree. “Let's rest a minute,” he said wearily. He leaned his head back against the smooth bark and wiped his forehead.
The three men stared at each other: they were ragged and torn, their beards were filthy from the brush, their eyes were squinting painfully from the brighter light reflected back from the still waters of the inlet. Welts from sprung branches and dried blood from scratched insect bites laced their tired faces; their hands were scarred and aching from the constant grip of the machetes and the whip of burrs against them.
Wilson grinned. “Men of Distinction...”
Da Silva smiled faintly. “Drink pinga." He sighed mightily and looked about. “Well, fun's fun, but there's work to do. Let's get started.”
He turned to push himself to his feet. There was a sharp buzz in his ear and he unconsciously raised a hand to brush at it. And then his eyes widened; he was staring at a short black dart still quivering in the tree where his head had been a moment before. Without conscious thought he was rolling desperately, yelling.
"Indians!"
His startled roll took him behind the tree; in the same movement he came to one knee, his revolver in his hand. Wilson and Freitas flung themselves to one side; leaves twitched as darts flew past them to strike on empty ground. A shadow deeper than the others flickered in the brush. Da Silva's shot echoed in the forest, joined in an instant by a fusillade of deeper tone as the others joined with their rifles. The three paused, panting; their eyes strained at the brush ahead of them. There was a sudden whish through the leaves as another barrage of darts came. They drew back and then leaned about the protection of their trees to let loose another round at the shadows ahead of them. A cry came, and then the crashing of brush, failing as it moved away to die in the distance. The three crouched, tense and alert. Then, from close at hand, came a loud call, an exhortation in some strange Indian tongue.
Wilson's eyes narrowed; he raised his rifle and then paused as the cry was repeated from the brush ahead.
“That's a woman's voice!”
Da Silva, kneeling behind a tree at the stocky man's side, tried to pierce the gloom of the forest with his eyes. He wiped a hand across his mouth.
Wilson stared across at him, suspicion forming on his face. “You don't suppose...?”
“No!”
Wilson closed his eyes and then opened them. He laid his rifle across his knees, cupped his hands about his mouth, and called loudly into the now-silent forest before them.
“Elena!”
There was a moment's silence, and then a clear, strong voice answered in Portuguese.
"Who...?"
“Lock the windows,” Wilson said softly. “They're coming down the chimney.” He raised his voice, pushing himself to his feet. “Elena! It's us! Wilson and Da Silva!”
There was a moment's hesitation, and then the brush rustled and she was coming towards them, her rifle swinging at her side, her eyes staring incredulously. She was dressed in the standard brown garb of the river folk, and Da Silva watched her as she approached. She looks like a little girl dressed up in her brother's clothes, he thought. Well, not exactly, he amended as he noted the full breasts straining against the tight shirt; make that a big girl dressed up in her brother's clothes. And then she was before them, her chapeau thrust back, staring at them.
“Mr. Wilson! Captain Da Silva! What...?” Her eyes moved over to encompass the large Captain Freitas, watching this exchange with calm blue eyes. “Who...?”
“Captain Freitas, this is Elena.” Wilson grinned. “Our nemesis.”
The girl nodded abruptly to acknowledge the introduction and then swung to Da Silva; but before she could speak the swarthy man had gotten in the first word. He frowned at her.
“What are you doing here?”
Her face became stony. “We've gone through that before, Captain. I'm here because I'm on assignment. You left me behind twice, but you won't again!” Her eyes were cold as she looked at him. “And now you've frightened away my carriers!”
Wilson caught his breath. "We frightened your carriers? They attacked us!”
She looked at him, and the justice of his complaint seemed to be accepted by her slight nod. “They didn't know who you were. They were afraid. They didn't want to come with me in the first place. There are so many stories...” She shivered a bit. “This is such frightening territory.” Her eyes came up darkly, staring at the huge trees that hung over them almost threateningly. The sun was beginning to sink now, casting long shadows over the inlet. “They'll never come back. They'll run and run.”
“Good!” Wilson said fervently.
Her eyes dropped from the forest, and she lowered herself gracefully to the ground at Da Silva's side. She turned to the swarthy man and then noticed the bandage about his head.
“Your head ... what happened?”
“Nothing.” Da Silva smiled at her. “Back on the Japurá I got a rap for not minding my business. It's all healed now. I just wear the bandage to look tough.”
“Let me see it.” Her hand came up tenderly.
He pulled his head away, grinning. “Not now. We'd better get started. Your carriers ma
y not run as far as you think.”
“Get started? All right. Where?”
Da Silva jerked a thumb. “Across the river.”
“Across the river?” She looked curious. “Why? Do you have any ideas?” The silence of the three suddenly struck her. “Did you run into anything?”
Wilson nodded. “A lot of bugs. And enough trees to keep me satisfied with concrete for the rest of my life. And—oh, yes!” His eyes twinkled. “I forgot to mention it. We also ran into an Indian village and—let's see—yes, I believe we also ran into an airfield.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
He grinned at her in satisfaction. “That's right. One airfield, complete with a goodly number of airplanes.”
Her eyes were excited. “Where?”
He jerked his head. “Downriver about five miles from here. On the other side.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
She crossed her legs, sitting Indian-fashion. Her eyes were bright. “Then you're right! We have to leave at once!” She wrinkled her forehead as she calculated. “We can be at the Japurá in four or five days; we can be in Manaus in a week at the outside with any luck. And cable the Foreign Office from there.”
Da Silva stared at her. “Except that we're not going to,” he said gently. “We're going to cross over there and find out what this is all about.”
“But you'll be wasting time. Don't you see?” Her dark eyes were serious as they gazed pleadingly into his. “You must have found what John Bailey found. You say there's an airfield there and a Jivaro village. We have to advise the Foreign Office at once!”
Da Silva shook his head. “I'm crossing over there.”
“But we'll waste time!” Her eyes softened; she laid her hand on his knee. “And it would be unnecessary danger. Don't you understand, José? I ... I don't want anything to happen to you.”
He looked at the lovely eyes staring into his; the other two men looked away, as if embarrassed by the intimacy of her tone. Da Silva laid his hand over hers.
“I understand, Elena,” he said softly. “But I'm going.”
Her eyes darkened. “You're just stubborn! It's a waste of time. And how do you expect to cross that river?”
He looked at her evenly. “By canoe.”
Wilson jerked up his head. “By canoe?"
Da Silva nodded. With his matted beard and the bandanna wound about his head he looked like a pirate. “Of course. Her canoe.”
As he spoke his hand slowly tightened on the one beneath until it was no longer a caress but a grip; even as her dark eyes opened wide in startled surprise he twisted and she fell heavily on her side. His other hand cupped her chin a moment and then slid down to her throat; his fingers tightened imperceptibly. Her eyes stared into his in sudden terror. His voice as he spoke was soft, but the icy threat in it was more fearsome for that very quietness.
“Your first scream will be your last.” He raised his voice slightly. “Wilson, hand me a piece of rope.”
Wilson was staring at him as if he had gone out of his mind. "Zé ! What on earth...!”
“Get me the rope.” Da Silva stared down at his prisoner with eyes as hard as obsidian. “Let's tie this one up.”
Wilson shook his head in puzzlement, but he came over with a rope and handed it to Da Silva slowly and reluctantly. “Zé! What are you doing? What's the matter with you?”
Da Silva smiled grimly. “Me? Nothing. I'm stupid—that's all.” He twisted the girl about, bringing her hands together behind her back; he looped the cord about them expertly as he spoke, drawing it tight. “I should have thought, when they tried to kill me in Rio, who knew I had been assigned to this job. But I put the idea away. There were a lot of people who wanted me dead, and little Elena was so pretty. But when we run into pretty little Elena up here, that's too much. I know it's a small world, but it's not all that small.” He completed the knot about her wrists and jerked her roughly to an upright sitting position. “And how did she get here? She certainly didn't follow us through the jungle. Look at those nice clean clothes and that lovely unscratched and unbitten complexion. No, she didn't follow us; she got here because she knew where to come!" He stared down into her glaring eyes. “And if she didn't come through the jungle, she must have gotten here by water. And that means a canoe.”
“But why should she ... ?”
“Why? Her job was to keep track of us—to keep us away or to have us killed if necessary.”
“But—”
“But what? Just because she's beautiful, therefore she has to be good? How American can you be? You said we found an Indian village; she knew it was a Jivaro village. How? And that attack a few minutes ago; do you think those darts were an accident?” He turned back to the girl, thrusting his swarthy face within inches of hers. “We're wasting time. Where is the canoe?”
She drew back her head, pursing her lips to spit. Da Silva's heavy hand slapped her across the mouth, knocking her to the ground. He jerked her upright; his voice remained even and deadly.
“Where's the canoe?”
Wilson stared at the two with shocked eyes. "Zé....”
Da Silva spoke harshly over his shoulder. “Keep your American morality out of this. This one tried to kill me twice.” He took the tip of her nose between two powerful fingers and slowly tightened. A scream of pain began to rise in her throat. His other hand slid to her throat.
“The canoe,” he said softly. “Where's the canoe?”
She jerked away, tears of pain and anger flooding her eyes.
“You want to know?” she said viciously. “You want to cross over? Good! I'll tell you where the canoe is: it's above the inlet on the river. And they'll be waiting for you on the other side, you animal, you filth!” She glared at him wildly from the ragged edge of hysteria. “You won't stop us now! You and these—these soft ones! Nobody will stop us now! You want to cross over? Cross! My brother will be waiting for you.” She swallowed as if she might have said too much and then added in a bitter tone, “Where do you think my Jivaros went? Oh, they'll be waiting...”
There was a soft, startled intake of breath from Captain Freitas. He had been leaning forward, pipe clenched between his jaws, watching the scene with almost detached curiosity. Now his eyes widened in sudden alarmed intelligence.
“Alameida!” he said softly. “Now I recognize this one! You said from Marãa ... When she mentioned her brother ... She and her brother had quite a reputation on the river in those years.”
The girl swung her head about, teeth bared. A tiny trickle of saliva oozed from the corner of her mouth. “And I recognized you, too. Tub of Lard! That's what we called you! Your head will be bigger than most, but it will still be small!”
“Alameida?” Da Silva's eyes had suddenly narrowed. "Faca Alameida?”
The girl clamped her jaws.
Captain Freitas nodded. “You know him?”
“I know him.” He sighed, staring down at the girl.
Wilson cleared his throat. He had recovered from his shock; he frowned in thought, his eyes taking in the tableau of the other two men awaiting his words.
“Wait. She could be right, you know. Those Indians could have warned them on the other side.”
Da Silva looked up, staring at him almost in disgust. “She's lying. Those weren't Jivaros or we wouldn't be here now. If they had been Jivaros, they wouldn't have run. And they'd have been armed with rifles, not blowguns.”
“Why? Don't Jivaros use blowguns?”
“Certainly they use them. But not when they have rifles. And the Jivaros here have plenty of rifles—and ammunition to burn. We saw them.” He shook his head. “And an even more important thing is that she called to them in the Timbira tongue.” He turned to the captain almost accusingly. “You should have noticed that.”
Captain Freitas looked at him. “I didn't notice.” He suddenly grinned at them. “At the moment I was busy. After all, I have more to hide than you skinny fellows.”
&nb
sp; “Those Indians were carriers she picked up,” Da Silva said quietly. He spoke as if the girl were not there, glaring at him in pure hatred. “They were willing to attack when she told them to, but they didn't feel they were paid to face guns. They're long gone on their way home.”
“But they still might have taken the canoe,” Wilson said in a worried tone.
Da Silva shook his head decisively. “Stealing a canoe in this country is almost a taboo. It's like stealing a horse was in the days of your Far West.” He suddenly grinned. “Having said all that, let's go steal a canoe.”
He leaned over and pulled the girl to her feet. The three men shouldered their packs while the girl watched their moves with hatred in her eyes. Da Silva took her roughly by the arm, his fingers biting into the soft flesh. She winced but came along, her jaw clenched. The party skirted the inlet with Captain Freitas in front with his rifle at the ready, but the jungle about them was quiet and the sounds were normal. Darkness was beginning to fall now; the thick reeds at the water's edge loomed more monstrously in the growing shadows, slashing at them as they forced their way through. The inlet bank on the far side curved back towards the river. They pushed faster, aware of the falling darkness. Elena stumbled along under the impetus of the strong fingers locked painfully on her arm; her dark eyes were filled with brooding hatred.
They found the canoe drawn up less than one hundred yards above the inlet entrance. They paused, panting, studying the darkening edges of the forest, and then slipped their packs from their backs, letting them drop into the hollowed-out canoe. Da Silva pointed: a small transistor radio was stowed in the prow.
Wilson nodded. “I believed you.”
“I was beginning to wonder.”
Da Silva pushed his bound prisoner. She crumpled to the ground and remained huddled there, her face completely expressionless. Da Silva stared across the wide river. Night was falling fast now and the far shore was barely discernible.
“In a while it should be dark enough to leave,” he said. “We'll let the current take it. I want to head for that spit over there.” He pointed. “If there's any activity, we'll have to move fast.”
The Shrunken Head Page 13