THE CORONEL GONCALVES
They turned off the _Pallida Mors_ and into a narrower stream. Small
cataracts sprayed down over rocky cliffs, sending a continuous foam over
the surface of the water. On the whole, it seemed to be not so rough,
and they glided along hour after hour under the beaming sun until Hal
began to tire.
Joaquim’s knowledge of the region was uncanny and Hal perceived, before
very long, that the Indian must have made many such trips back and forth
to Ceara’s camp. Also, he seemed to know just to the minute when they
would arrive at the lonely jungle spot.
It was middle afternoon when Hal helped Joaquim push the canoe well up
into the foliage overhanging the river bank. Then they clambered up, up
and, with the Indian in the lead, came to a narrow trail over which they
marched for a half hour.
“Do we walk as far as we ride?” Hal asked wearily.
Joaquim shook his head.
“Soon now,” he muttered. “Listen, Señor!”
A man’s voice cried out sharply and Joaquim answered him quickly. Hal
could see no one, but presently a rather wretched-looking young man in
tattered khaki emerged from between the trees. He glanced at the
newcomers suspiciously.
“He want know who come here,” the Indian interpreted. “He want know what
we have to show we come. I say letter from Señor Pemb.”
“Righto,” Hal said briskly, and took out his letters. The one addressed
to General Ceara he gave to the sentry and the other he returned to his
pocket.
The fellow looked at the address on the envelope, turned it every which
way, then glanced at Hal suspiciously again. Finally he spoke to the
Indian, talking for an interminable time. When he had finished Joaquim
passed on the news.
“The General Ceara he is not here, but the sentry say come, it will be
all right.”
“All right by me, Joaquim old boy. Where is Ceara—out to lunch?”
The Indian shrugged his shoulders and at a gesture from the sentry they
fell into a march. Hal, for some reason, felt not so comfortable about
having the fellow tramping at his back with a bayonet in position. But
as Joaquim seemed not to mind this military formality, he made the best
of it too.
After a five-minute tramp they came suddenly out on a broad plain.
Dotted about its outskirts were hundreds of small thatched huts. Men
roamed about, shaggy and unkempt in their wrinkled and tattered khaki.
Others lounged about on the ground before their huts and stared
curiously at the newcomers.
They passed at least a half-dozen sentries before their guard commanded
them to stop before a hut, much larger and more sumptuous looking than
the rest. Hal decided that this must be the headquarters of the famous
Ceara.
At a gesture from the guard, they were surrounded by reinforcements
while he stepped inside the hut, manifestly to announce their arrival.
Hours seemed to pass while they waited and Hal exchanged several
calamitous glances with Joaquim.
“Miss Felice is expecting us back before midnight,” he said to the
Indian once. “From the looks of things, we can’t be certain which
midnight.”
Hal had reached the stage when he was resting first on one foot and then
on the other, and neither one resting at all. The sentry at that
juncture came out and once more addressed the Indian who in turn
addressed his tall young charge.
“We go in,” he said. “We see Coronel Goncalves, not General Ceara. Ceara
he not here.”
“What?” Hal asked.
But it was too late. The sentry and a rear flank fairly carried them in
with occasional light proddings of their bayonets. A large,
low-ceilinged room loomed up before Hal’s bright blue eyes, as did the
many broken-down chairs circled around a rickety table.
Behind the table Goncalves was purring and twisting his little
moustache.
He smiled sardonically up to Hal’s vast height and straightening his
dapper little self in the chair placed his elbows upon the table.
“Ah, such a pleasure, Señor Hal!” he purred softly. “To whom do I owe it
on this my first audience as Coronel of the revolutionary forces?”
Hal sent down his most brilliant smile in return.
“You don’t owe it to me, Goncalves,” he said with an uproarious laugh.
“You owe it to Mr. Pemberton. I came to save him and his daughter the
fatigue of a journey.”
“I remember you were kind, Señor Hal.”
“Never mind all the apple-sauce, fellow. Joaquim and I are in a hurry.
My letter is for General Ceara.”
“Por Deus!” said Goncalves with a mournful face. “You are but too late,
Señor Hal. General Ceara has died with the fever.”
Hal looked straight down into the little man’s snapping eyes, and they
wavered before his own steady gaze. Goncalves was lying, he knew.
“I don’t believe anything of the kind, Goncalves,” Hal said with
startling frankness. “But, nevertheless, I can tell you what we want.
_Renan!_ His grandfather and sister are worried sick about him. Now
don’t lie about that, fellow—you can’t put anything over on me like
lies—I can read them in those soul reflectors of yours. And, man, they
don’t add to your charms any, believe me.” He laughed mockingly. “Now do
I hear where Renan is or not?”
“You shall see him, Señor. _Si._ In a moment, eh? Just I want to ask you
how is the fine old Señor Marcellus, eh? And the what-you-call stuck up
Felice—no? Ah, she hate me. But the Coronel Goncalves does not care,
Señor Hal. I get back. Si. While you and the Señor Renan are safe under
guard, some _Pallidas_ shall steal down upon the Pemberton granddaughter
and her grandfather—no? I shall make it so. Si. The _Pallidas_ they hate
the Pemberton for taking their settlement from them. They think the
family have evil spirits because the señorita’s father dig a mine, eh?
They want ver’ much to rid their tribe of evil spirits, these
_Pallidas_, and to kill the Pembertons they think will bring them luck.”
“You’re an idiot to even say such things,” Hal shouted. “Your mind must
be all cut up, isn’t it? Who ever gave you charge of a lot of normal men
anyway? An idiot bossing sane men. Well, let me tell you, Goncalves—you
lay a finger on that girl or her grandfather and your days are numbered.
They’re numbered anyway, as a matter of fact. Unk must be on your trail
good and plenty by now ... when you think you’re fooling a Yank like
Unk, you’ve got to go some!”
“Ah, Señor Hal. Such talk! But how will you know what the Coronel
Goncalves is doing when you are no more, eh? You won’t, Señor!” Suddenly
the little man’s face twisted in a maniacal smile. “I want that gold at
Pembertons’, _si_? I shall get it and no one shall be alive to know!
_Cada qual por si e Deus por todos!_” he added.
Joaquim touched Hal’s hand affectionately as the guards pushed him past
with their bayonets.
“He say ‘each for himself and God for us all,’ Señor. I thought you like
to know.”
“Sure, thanks, Joaquim,” Hal muttered breathlessly. “Looks as if we’re
going to be separated, huh. Well, over the river and so long, old top!”
“_Adios_, Señor Hal! _Adios!_”
Whatever became of Joaquim, Hal never knew. Suffice to say, he never
again saw the kind-hearted and faithful Indian.