"There can be only one answer to that, senhor.” I smiled. “An order is an order. And an order to drink from the private stock of the coronel is not to be denied."
We turned toward the ubá. The gleam of the gold cross struck my eye. I looked up at the great grim assacu, from which we had cut away the foul alligator before we buried the bones.
"On this tree,” I said, “we found the gold cross, hung in mockery on a victim of fiends. And on this tree I shall leave the cross, as a sign that the fiends have gone to their hell; and that though snakes may come and snakes may go, this place is safe for honest men."
So I took the cross from the arrow-studded toldo and knotted its chain hard around the head and handle of my machadinha. I cut big leaves from a nearby bush and held them before me as a shield against any flying drops of the poisonous sap of the assacu. And then, with all the power of my arm, I swung the hatchet, driving its head far into the tree.
Then we entered the ubá, pushed out, paddled to our camp, and began making up our packs for the return to headquarters.
Our work here was done. The gang of the Jararaca was gone. The jungle was safe. Among the wicked thorns of the poison tree, high over the heads of any jararaca or surucucu or other deadly thing which might crawl over the knoll when we were gone, shone the sign of the white man's rule; a golden token that here all was well, and that if at any future time it should not be well, we seringueiros were ready to return with lead and steel and make it so.
And now, with our grim work completed, we turned our thoughts from death and crosses to life and enjoyment, as is the way of men. And as we talked of what had passed we voiced only one regret. That was that nobody had been thoughtful enough to bring along another jug.
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Amazon Nights: Classic Adventure Tales from the Pulps Page 37