A FEAR
Hal was witness to a miracle that midnight. It was one of those rare
occasions when a vast body of men are all inspired with one thought, one
motive at one time. And Renan, that friend of all men, achieved it.
It began in the early evening with the sentry guarding their hut. Renan
whispered to him what horrors the self-styled Coronel was planning for
the Pemberton family that evening and what extreme measures would have
to be taken to prevent death and destruction.
Toward mid-evening, after Coronel Goncalves left the camp with a picked
guard, word had gone around to every man. By midnight they were all
assembled to carry out a common purpose, Hal and Renan in the lead.
A half hour later a line of dark canoes glided silently and swiftly
through the water. Overhead, the stars gleamed and from the surrounding
jungle strange noises came and went. Now and again the men muttered
softly, but on the whole there was a deep silence.
After an interminable time they reached the _Pallida Mors_ and Hal heard
Renan sigh with relief.
“Not so long now,” he said gravely. “If only....”
“Hope for the best, Rene,” Hal said comfortingly.
But the best was not pleasant, for when they sailed through the dawn and
into the settlement, there was naught but charred bits of thatched huts
to tell the tale. Overhead, the sky was black with vultures.
Renan sickened at the sight, but Hal kept up and searched every inch of
the place. The Indian servants had expired, each with a fancy poisoned
arrow in his heart. But of Felice and her grandfather there was not a
sign.
“We’re going up to pay the _Pallidas_ a visit, Rene,” Hal said darkly.
“And unless they cut short their ceremonies we ought to be on time.”
“You may be right about it, Hal,” Renan said anxiously. “I know they’re
hours sometimes with those ceremonies for driving out the evil spirits.
Perhaps poor Felice and Grandfather....”
“Might be the cause of future happiness,” Hal said, trying to be as
cheerful as he could. “Sometimes things _do_ happen for the best, even
when they look to be their worst.”
“These _Pallida_ Indians are the worst of their kind, Hal,” Renan
reminded him. “Their superstitions are limitless.”
“I know. I’ve given quite a lot of thought to this so-called _Phantom of
Death River_.”
“The jaguar in whom my father’s supposed to have been reincarnated?”
“Yes,” Hal answered thoughtfully. “They were pretty tricky thinking that
up. But do you know what, Rene? I think that they made it up to keep
people from getting too snoopy about that poor wretch in the hut.”
“The demented native?”
“Native?” Hal returned. “Listen, Rene—I heard that supposed native cry
right near me and it didn’t sound any more native than you do. That
wretch had the cry of a white man, not a native.”
“_Hal!_”
“Yes. Believe it or not. They even tried to make me believe those cries
were from the jaguar, but I know what I heard. It was a white man’s
cry.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Because I couldn’t quite bring myself to thinking that such a horrible
thought could be true. Besides, Felice assured me that it was a native
and consequently none of the white man’s concern. But somehow yesterday
and today—especially after I talked with Calves Liver this afternoon, I
figured it out. It’s been going on for ten years, hasn’t it, Rene?”
“Yes, as far as we know. That’s about the time we got wind of the
story.”
“And, Rene, I hope it’s just an hallucination, but your father ... he’s
been gone ten years....”
“Great Heavens, Hal! Why ... it couldn’t be ... yet ... it’s just ten
years!”