"I killed him for your sake,” he insisted. “And I killed him in fight—he was drawing a revolver. An instant more and we would both have been prisoners. I never poisoned a fond old man as you did—I did not even know you had killed him until you told me. And I am glad I did not slit the servant's throat. A killer I may be, but not a cold-blooded murderer."
"Bah! It makes no difference. You must die if you go out. You will soon die here. Death here or outside—what does it matter? You deserve to die alone after the blunders you have made, and so you shall. And I shall find a way to escape your Brazilian police. You Brazilians are all alike—stupid fools!"
Pedro drew in his breath softly, and I heard him mutter—
"I think you are mistaken, my lady."
The sick voice came again, stronger with wrath.
"Yes, I know your way—a way of falsehood. False to your husband—false to me—you will be false to these men and to the Englishmen also. You are a good actress, with your pretended fear of an imaginary Carlos Guimaraes. You are a fine liar, with your wild tale of abduction and an Azevedo who never existed and a wealthy Italian father—Italian! Ha!
"You have made these strangers swallow your story, and you are trying to lure them also—yes, I heard you kiss one of them! But you will forsake them as soon as they have served your purpose.
"Then you will play on the hearts of those young Englishmen as you have played on mine. You will try to set them against one another, to rob and ruin them as you have done to other men. Or you will tell them you are French, perhaps, and persuade them to help you reach Europe.
"If you are caught, you will swear that I was the one who poisoned your husband and that I forced you to come with me. Otherwise you will think no more of me whom you leave to perish."
"Since you are so wise,” she replied, her voice harder than ever, “I will tell you that you are nearly right. I shall make the Englishmen send me to Europe, and there I shall go home to Austria and find again the one man I love—Karl, my Karl, captain of hussars.
"And you are right, too, when you say I shall forget you and your whines, and the fat old fool I married in Rio, and all the rest of your accursed country. And I shall be happy—"
"Ha-ha-ha!” The man burst into a terrible laugh. “Happy! Yes, you will be happy! You will be happy in a Brazilian prison! I am not dead yet, and we shall see!"
"What do you mean?"
He laughed again in a crazed way.
"I am not the only fool! You are one also! Those men return at dawn for you. I shall see to it that they hear me and come into this room, and I will tell them who you are and what you have done. Then you will charm the Englishmen—oh yes—ha-ha-ha!''
For a moment she made no reply. When she did speak her voice sounded like the hiss of a snake.
"So! You will do that! Then you must become silent before they return!"
"Deos meo! Put away that dagger! Will you stab me?"
"Hold!” shouted Pedro.
Seizing the wooden bars, he tugged at them. They bent, but stayed in place. I grabbed them with both hands and we heaved together. The whole frame flew outward and I tumbled on my back. As I jumped up I saw Pedro go squirming through the opening.
The instant he got through I followed him, landing on hands and knees inside. As I rose I saw the Firefly Woman leap into the doorway beyond. Fear and anger both showed in her face. In her right hand glimmered her dagger.
Seeing Pedro bounding toward her, she realized instantly that her scheme had failed. With a scream of fury she sprang at him like a jungle cat. She stabbed at his stomach. He slipped aside and the thrust missed him. His rifle-barrel smacked against her wrist. The knife flew from her hand to the floor.
Swiftly she stooped to recover it. But he blocked her, grabbed her, swung her up off the ground. She fought, kicked, tore at him with both hands; but he twisted his face downward, shielding his eyes from her nails. I was beside him now, and I caught up the dagger.
"I have it,” I told him. “You can drop her."
But before he put her down he strode into that other room. There he caught her hands and held them, and as he let her down he commanded:
"Be still! You will only get yourself hurt. You can not harm us nor get away, and you had best stop trying."
She twisted and tugged, but could not free herself. So, though her eyes still blazed, she ceased struggling and stood breathing hard.
"Welcome back, friends!” cried the man's voice from a dim corner. “You come just in time to save me from being butchered."
We made out the gleam of teeth, the glint of eyes and the pallor of a sick white face. I turned back into the outer room, cut the hangings of one of the light-cages and brought it in with me. By the new light we saw a tall, fever-thinned young fellow lying on a rough bed. We saw, too, that he had not long to live.
"You came back and listened, is it not so?” he asked.
We nodded.
"Then you know us, and it is useless to try to deceive you further. A little while ago I dreaded to have you find me. Now I do not care. I am Manoel de Mello, of Rio, and this gentle companion of mine is Frances Andravery—or Senhora Francisca Azul, widow by her own deed. You know, of course, of the murder of her husband, Ailonso Azul."
We nodded again. The truth was that we never had heard of this Azul or his murder; for Rio was many hundreds of miles from us, and the news of that city is not likely to reach the ears of jungle-workers at the head of the Amazon. Yet we knew he spoke truth, for we had heard him accuse her of the crime while we listened at the window, and even now she did not deny it. So, as I say, we let him think we knew all about it.
"And now what will you do with us?” he asked.
We looked at him thoughtfully. A few months ago he must have been a strong, active, handsome fellow. Now he was a wreck, too far gone to have a chance for life. We had no medicines, and we knew he would die before we could reach the headquarters of the coronel with him. More than this, our canoe was a light two-man craft, and it never would carry all four of us.
"Where is your canoe?” I asked.
He laughed as if the question were a ghastly joke.
"Canoe? Gone, weeks ago! We stole it when we were hard pressed on the Amazon, traveled in it until we found this dead town, and stopped here to hide and rest. Then one night when the water rose it floated away. We never found it. We have no canoe. I ask you again, what will you do with us?"
"I do not know,” said Pedro slowly. “If we take you out it will be only to death. We are not police, and it is not for us to punish you. We are not doctors, and we can not cure you. We are not priests, and we can not save you. And I am much afraid, friend Manoel, that you will see few more dawns."
"You have it right,” agreed Manoel. “There is little hope for me. And I am not afraid to die—I am glad to die, now that I know how cruel and false this woman is. But I do not want to die alone and deserted."
The woman spoke.
"It is as I said. It is useless to take you out. But these men will take me out, if only to punishment. Even that will be better than staying here."
Looking keenly at her, I guessed her thought: that in some way she would yet succeed in saving herself—perhaps by charming the young Englishmen, who we had said were our employers, and convincing them that we were liars and that she was a much wronged girl. So I decided to kill that idea.
"Perhaps we will take you out, senhorita—I mean senhora. But not to Tabatinga. We stay here until we have done all we can do for Manoel. Then you go with us to the headquarters of Coronel Nunes, our employer.
"The tale I told you was a joke. There are no young Englishmen at Tabatinga—at least none that I know—and we are not scouts but rubber-workers of the coronel. And the coronel is no young fool. He is old and shrewd, and you could neither beguile him nor deceive him."
My guess had been right. Her face writhed. With a sudden wrench she twisted her hands from Pedro's grip and sprang at me. I slipped her dagger into my belt at the back,
where she could not reach it, and held her off. After fighting me a minute she stood still and began to curse me.
I had heard rough talk from women sometimes in the past, for the women of the frontier are not always choice in their language, especially when angered; but never, senhores, have I listened to such words from a woman's mouth as I heard then. No man could have called me such names and lived. But, since she was not a man, I could only stand and let her rave.
At length she choked with rage and could say no more. In keeping her away from me I had moved about so that my back was toward the sick man. Now I heard his voice again, and to my astonishment it was almost at my ear. Turning, I found that he had managed to drag himself up and stood supporting himself against the wall. His sunken eyes glittered.
"A sweet, dainty, lovable woman for men to throw away life and honor for, is she not?” he said. “Yet I have loved her—God, how I have loved her! Now I have nearly reached my end, and there is no escape for me. But for you, Francisca, there is still a way to avoid the prison and the shame awaiting you down the river. It is very simple.''
His voice grew weak, and he swayed.
"Since this is the last thing I can do for you, Francisca, I will tell you—"
We could hardly hear him now. He seemed about to drop. But he moved his head, beckoning her closer.
"You will tell me what? Speak quickly."
Eagerly she stepped close to him. He straightened. His teeth flashed again. Something else flashed too—cold steel.
A scream broke from her. She staggered back and fell.
Swiftly on the breast of her red gown spread a deeper red. Her white face grew whiter.
She lay utterly still.
We whirled on Manoel. As we did so he too dropped. Whether he stabbed himself before falling or collapsed from weakness and fell on the knife I do not know. But he struck on his face, and when we turned him over we found the dagger in his breast, driven into the hilt.
It looked like Francisca's own dagger. I threw a hand to my belt. Her weapon was gone. Then I realized what he had done.
While my back was toward him and both Pedro and I were looking at the furious woman, he had drawn on his last strength to rise, slip the knife from me and stand against the wall until he could lure her within reach. The dagger with which she had intended to silence him forever had done its work—but had found her own heart first.
"The simplest way,” Manoel gasped. “No prison. No lonely death. We lived together—we die together. I go out with her blood on my hands. Yet I have been through hell for her. Perhaps the good God will have mercy on me."
"Perhaps he will, Manoel,” Pedro echoed. “Truly, there is no hell like the one into which a woman can drag a man."
Manoel twisted once and was still. We rose and gazed down at both of them. In Francisca's black hair, on her red gown and her white arms and throat the fireflies still gleamed bright and cold. From Manoel's haggard face the lines of pain and weakness were gone. Both slept the long sleep, freed forever from the fear and struggle and disgrace which were the only things left them in life.
"As he said, it was the simplest way,” mused Pedro. “It is best for them and best for us. They themselves have finished what they began. Now there is only one thing we can do for them."
Stooping, he lifted her. I straightened Manoel and laid him back on his bed Pedro lowered the girl beside him.
Then taking with us the firefly cage, we went to the door, pulled it shut behind us, crossed the outer room and crawled out through the window. Back down the path we went, found our canoe and silently paddled back to our hammocks.
At dawn we returned. As she had said, there was a small window in that room where she and Manoel lay. Across it ran wooden bars like those at the front of the house. With our machetes we cut vines and creepers, wove them into the openings until they were tight, and plastered the whole frame thickly with clay.
Then we repaired the broken frame we had torn from the front window, put that also in place, and clayed it like the other. With its outer door still barred and its windows sealed, the last refuge of the Firefly and her lover had become their tomb.
One long look we gave at the dreary, silent town half buried in the bush. Then we went down the path for the last time. As we stopped at our canoe Pedro whirled, his rifle up. Then he lowered it. Behind us was the black monkey.
"Adeos, compadre," Pedro said soberly. “I am glad you did not get walled into that house, for we had forgotten you. Now we go. This is your town. We leave you here to live your own life as we go out to live ours. Farewell."
We pushed off and paddled away, leaving the queer fellow watching us.
He may be there tonight, that monkey, snitching at fireflies in the gloom at the head of the cove and putting them on himself as he once saw his mistress do. But neither he nor I nor any of us will ever again hear that voice singing in the night.
"Glitter, glitter, pretty firefly!
Born but to dance and flash and die."
Nor will any of us ever again see that woman, driven from the lights of a far off shore by her crime, decking herself with the only jewels left to her—the natural jewels of the jungle And it is as well. For all fireflies, beautiful though they may be, are false, senhores—false and cold.
THE TAILED MEN
THOSE are true words, senhor, though spoken in jest. You say that if men were shaped to fit their natures some would find it hard to wear hat and trousers, because they would have horns and tails.
I have met men who should have been so marked, and who ought also to have had claws instead of hands and split hoofs instead of feet; for, though their bodies were human, they were fiends at heart. True, in time their malice became known, and at last their own evil deeds caused their deaths, but not until they had brought much misery to others. How much blood and tears could be saved if only Deos Padre would make men—and women too—so that their natures could be seen at once.
Yes, that is a useless wish. But your remark, senhor, brings to my mind a memory of the strangest creatures I ever saw—creatures so queer that perhaps you will not believe me when I tell of them. Yet the tale will pass the time while we lounge here on the steamer's deck, and anything which kills the tedium of this long journey down the Amazon is worthwhile.
Now you two North American explorers, if I am not mistaken, have been adventuring in the country along the river Javary and westward in Peru toward the Ucayali. Then you have not visited the river Jurua, east of the Javary? It is well. If ever you return to Brazil and go far up that river, be prepared for trouble.
I have been there—and I am not going back. If the floods had not been very heavy that year I should never have gone there at all. With my comrade, Pedro Andrada, I had recently been out on a long rambling trip through the wild jungle along the border of Brazil and Peru, and there we had met with hardships which made us satisfied to stay in idleness at Remate de Males, a Javary town where we rubber-workers gathered in the rainy season. But now, loafing one day at the store of a trader with nothing to do but smoke and watch the dirty waters swirling past, we grew restless again.
"Lourenço, too much idleness is worse than too much work,” said Pedro, yawning and stretching his powerful arms. “I feel stupid, and you are getting fat. If the flood does not go down soon you will get such a big belly that you will grunt like a sloth every time you tap a tree."
This was only a joke, for, though I am broad and had grown heavy from inaction, I had not swollen up along the belt-line. But I felt sluggish, as he did, and so weary of lounging that I wished someone would start a fight, or anything else that would quicken my blood. Lazily I tried to think of something we could do, but the only ideas that came to me were old ones and not worth trying. So I only grunted and sat still, looking up the river.
Something was floating down toward us and I watched it because there was nothing else to look at—drifting trees were so common that I hardly ever noticed them. As this thing came nearer, though, I saw t
hat it was not a tree but a small canoe. It swung slowly around on the current, seeming empty and useless.
"There is something we can do,” I said, nodding toward it. “A short paddle will stretch our muscles and give us another boat."
He yawned again and untied our own canoe, fastened to a post of the store. I got up and splashed toward it—the water was so high that, in spite of the tall poles on which the store stood, it flowed over the platform—and we were about to step in when Pedro started.
"Por amor de Deos!" he cried. “Look!"
The drifting boat was quite near us now. Above its edge something had risen and was moving weakly in little jerks; a thing like a skinny claw, or the hand of a man almost dead from starvation or fever, trying to attract attention and bring help. As we stared it dropped out of sight.
Without a word we leaped into our canoe and drove our paddles in deep. We were both old in the ways of the bush, and we knew what to expect. Yet the man we found out there on the river was in such a condition that even we, who had looked on many hard sights, turned cold as we stared down at him.
He seemed dead. His eyes were fixed and glassy, his mouth open, his chest motionless, his body shrunken to a skeleton. This did not disturb us, for we who work in the jungle of Javary see much of death. He was totally naked, and scabbed from head to foot by the bites of thousands of piums or carrapatos. Yet this did not shock us either, for any man who travels the Brazilian bush will be badly bitten at times by insects, and if he loses his clothing he will suffer much. The things that chilled us were two—the fear stamped deep in his ghastly face, and the marks of torture.
The scars were not new, but they were plain. They were the marks of fire and knife. And the worst of all was that he had been not only burned and cut, but mutilated.
Gripping the edge of his canoe, we went drifting down the current, looking at him and at each other. It seemed useless to take him ashore, for there was nothing to show who he was or whence he came, and the water was so high that we should have some trouble in finding a good place to bury him. Yet we nodded to each other, and were preparing to tow him in, when we jumped as if a snake had struck at us. He moved!
Amazon Nights: Classic Adventure Tales from the Pulps Page 9