AT SUNDOWN
Past the loungers in the street, past others in the doorways, past
children and dogs and goats, the pair marched briskly to the faded blue
house whence the federal superintendent ruled the town with tropic
indolence. There they found a thin, fever-worn, gravely courteous
gentleman awaiting them.
"Sit, senhores," he urged, with a languid wave of the hand toward
chairs. "I am honored by your visit, as is all Remate de Males. In what
way can I serve you?"
The blond answered:
"We have come, sir, both for the pleasure of making your acquaintance
and for a little information. First permit me to introduce my friend Mr.
Roderick McKay, lately a captain in the United States army. I am
Meredith Knowlton. There is a third member of our party, Mr. Timothy
Ryan, who remained on the river bank to talk with--er--a soldier of
Brazil."
The federal official nodded, a slight smile in his eyes.
"We are here ostensibly for exploration," Knowlton continued, candidly,
"but actually to find a certain man. I think it quite probable that we
shall have to do considerable exploring before finding him."
"Ah," the other murmured, shrewdly. "It is a matter of police work,
perhaps?"
"No--and yes. The man we seek is not wanted by the law, and yet he is.
He has committed no crime, and so cannot be arrested. But the law wants
him badly because the settlement of a certain big estate hinges upon the
question of whether he is alive or dead. If alive, he is heir to more
than a million. If not--the money goes elsewhere."
"Ah," repeated the official, thoughtfully.
"I might add," McKay broke in with a touch of stiffness, "that neither I
nor either of my companions would profit in any way by this man's death.
Quite the contrary."
"Ah," reiterated the other, his face clearing. "You are commissioned,
perhaps, to find and produce this man."
"Exactly," Knowlton nodded. "From our own financial standpoint he is
worth much more alive than dead. On the other hand, any absolute proof
of his death--proof which would stand in a court of law--is worth
something also. Our task is to produce either the man himself or
indisputable proof that he no longer lives.
"The man's name is David Dawson Rand. If alive, he now is thirty-three
years old. Height five feet nine. Weight about one hundred sixty. Hair
dark, though not black. Eyes grayish green. Chief distinguishing marks
are the green eyes, a broken nose--caused by being struck in the face by
a baseball--and a patch of snow-white hair the size of a thumb ball, two
inches above the left ear. Accustomed to having his own way, not at all
considerate of others. Yet not a bad fellow as men go--merely a man
spoiled by too much mothering in boyhood and by the fact that he never
had to work. This is he."
From a breast pocket he drew a small grain-leather notebook, from which
he extracted an unmounted photograph. The superintendent looked into the
pictured face of a full-cheeked, wide-mouthed, square-jawed man with a
slightly blasé expression and a half-cynical smile. After studying it a
minute he nodded and handed it back.
"As you say, senhor, a man who never has had to work."
"Exactly. For five years this man has been regarded as dead. It was his
habit to start off suddenly for any place where his whims drew him,
notifying nobody of his departure. But a few days later he would always
write, cable, or telegraph his relatives, so that his general
whereabouts would soon become known. On his last trip he sent a radio
message from a steamer, out at sea, saying he was bound for Rio Janeiro.
That was the last ever heard from him."
"Rio is far from here," suggested the Brazilian.
"Just so. We look for Rand at the headwaters of the Amazon, instead of
in Rio, because Rio yields no clew and because of one other thing which
I shall speak of presently.
"It has been learned that he reached Rio safely, but there his trail
ended. As he had several thousand dollars on his person, it was
concluded that he was murdered for his money and his body disposed of.
This belief has been held until quite recently, when a new book of
travel was published--_The Mother of Waters_, by Dwight Dexter, an
explorer of considerable reputation."
The Brazilian's brows lifted.
"Senhor Dexter? I remember Senhor Dexter. He stopped here for a short
time, ill with fever. So he has published a book?"
"Yes. It deals mainly with his travels and observations in Peru, along
the Marañon, Huallaga, and Ucayali. But it includes a short chapter
regarding the Javary, and in that chapter occurs the following, which I
have copied verbatim."
From the notebook he read:
"'It falls to the lot of the explorer at times to meet not only hitherto
unclassified species of fauna and flora, but also strange specimens of
the _genus homo_. Such a creature came suddenly upon my camp one day
just before a serious and well-nigh fatal attack of fever compelled me
to relinquish my intention to proceed farther up the Javary.
"'While my Indian cook was preparing the afternoon meal, out from the
dense jungle strode a bearded, shaggy-haired, painted white man, totally
nude save for a narrow breechclout and a quiver containing several long
hunting arrows. In one hand he carried a strong bow of really excellent
workmanship. This was his only weapon. He wore no ornament, unless
streaks of brilliant red paint be considered ornaments. He was wild and
savage in appearance and manner as any cannibal Indian. Yet he was
indubitably white.
"'To my somewhat startled greeting he made no response. Neither did he
speak at any time during his unceremonious visit. Bolt upright, he stood
beside my crude table until the Indian stolidly brought in my food.
Then, without a by-your-leave, the wild man rapidly wolfed down the
entire meal, feeding himself with one hand and holding his bow ready in
the other. Though I questioned him and sought to draw him into
conversation, he honored me with not so much as a grunt or a gesture.
When the table was bare he stalked out again and vanished into the dim
forest.
"'After he had gone my Indian urged that we leave the place at once. The
man, he said, was "The Raposa"--a word which denotes a species of wild
dog sometimes found on the upper Amazon. He knew nothing of this
"Raposa" except that he apparently belonged to a wild tribe living far
back in the forest, perhaps allied with the cannibal Mayorunas, who were
very fierce; and that he appeared sometimes at Indian settlements,
where, without ever speaking, he would help himself to the best food and
then leave. My man seemed to fear that now some great misfortune would
come to us unless we shifted our base. When the fever came upon me soon
afterward, the superstitious fellow was convinced that the illness was
attributable directly to the visit of the human "wild dog."
"'Aside from the nudity and barbarism of the mysterious stranger,
certain personal peculiarities struck me. One was that his eyes were
green. Another was a streak of snow-white hair above one ear.
Furthermore, the red paint on his body outlined his skeleton. His ribs,
spine, arm- and leg-bones all were portrayed on his tanned skin by those
brilliant red streaks. In this connection my Indian asserted that in the
tribe to which "The Raposa" probably belonged it was the custom to
preserve the bones of the dead and to paint them with this same red dye,
after which the bones were hung up in the huts of the deceased instead
of being given burial. Beyond this my informant knew nothing of the "Red
Bone" people, except that to enter their country was death.'"
Knowlton returned the book to his pocket and carefully buttoned the
flap.
"When that appeared," he continued, "efforts were made to get hold of
Dexter, with the idea of showing him the photograph of the missing man
and learning any additional details. Unfortunately, by the time the book
was published Dexter had gone to Africa to seek a race of dwarfs said to
exist in the Igidi Desert, and thus was totally out of reach. Then we
were called upon to follow up this clew and find the Raposa if possible.
Men with green eyes and patches of white hair above one ear are not
common. So, though our knowledge of this strange wild man is confined to
those few words of Dexter's, we are here to learn more of him and to get
him if we can."
He looked expectantly at the official. The latter, after staring out
through the doorway for a time, shook his head slightly.
"Something of this Raposa and of those red-streaked people has come to
my ears, senhores, but only as rumors," he said, slowly. "And one does
not place great faith in rumors. Yet I have repeatedly been surprised to
learn, after dismissing a story as an empty Indian tale, that the tale
was true.
"Of the Mayorunas more is known. They are eaters of human flesh,
inhabiting both sides of the Javary, deadly when angered, and very
easily angered. Their country is not many days distant from here, but as
they never attack us we do not attack them. It is an armed neutrality,
as you senhores would say. True, we have to be careful in drinking
water, for they sometimes poison the streams against real or imaginary
enemies, and the poisoned waters flow down to us, causing those who
drink it to die of a fever like the typhoid. Yet," and he smiled, "there
is a saying, is there not, that water is made not to drink, but to bathe
in?"
Knowlton laughed. McKay's eyes twinkled.
"I'm sorry to say that water's about all a fellow can get to drink in
the States now," the blond man said, ruefully. "That is, of course,
unless a man knows where to go."
"_Si._ It is a pity. But here in Brazil one need not drink water unless
he wishes, and often it is better not to. Of the Mayorunas, senhor--you
do not intend to go among them, seeking this wild man of the red bones?
If you should do so it would be a matter of regret to me."
"Meaning that we should not come out again? That's a risk we have to
face. We go wherever it is necessary."
"I am sorry. I regret also that I can give you no definite information.
Yet I wish you all success, senhores, and a safe return. This much I can
do and gladly will do: I can send word to another white man who now is
in the town and who knows much of the upper river. He may be able to
assist you, and without doubt will be eager to do so. He is staying at
the hotel, just below here--Senhor Schwandorf."
The eyes of the two Americans narrowed. The official coughed.
"Senhor McKay has been a soldier. And Senhor Knowlton--"
"I was a lieutenant."
"Ah! But the war has passed, senhores. Senhor Schwandorf was not a
soldier of Germany--he has been in Brazil for more than six years."
"War's over. That's right," McKay agreed. "But don't bother to send
word. We'll find him if he's at the hotel. Going there ourselves. Glad
to have met you, sir. Good luck!"
"And to you also luck, Capitao and Tenente," smiled the official. McKay
and Knowlton strode out.
"Guess this is the hotel," hazarded McKay, glancing at a house which
rose slightly above the others. "I'll go in and charter rooms. You get
Tim and have somebody rustle our impedimenta up here."
He turned aside. Knowlton trudged on through the glare of sunset to the
river bank where Tim and the army of Remate de Males still loafed up and
down, the admired of all beholders.
"All right, Tim. We're moving to the hotel. No more war, I see."
"Lord love ye, no," grinned Tim. "Me and this feller are gittin' on
fine. He's Joey--I forgit the rest of his names; he's got about a dozen
more and they sound like stones rattlin' around inside a can. But Joey's
a right guy. After me tour o' duty ends he's goin' to buy me a drink and
maybe introjuce me to a lady friend o' his. Want to join the party,
Looey?"
"Not unless the ladies are better looking than these," laughed the
ex-lieutenant, moving his head toward the pipe-smoking females.
"Faith, I was thinkin' that same meself. Unless he can dig up somethin'
fancier 'n what I see so far, I'd as soon have Mademoiselle."
"Who?"
"Mademoiselle of Armentières. Sure, ye know that one, Looey. Goes to the
tune o' 'Parley-Voo.'"
Wherewith he lifted up a foghorn voice and, much to the edification of
"Joey" (whose name really was Joao) and the rest of Remate de Males,
burst into song:
"Mademoiselle of Armenteers,
Pa-a-arley-voo!
She smoked our butts and bummed our beers,
Pa-a-arley-voo!
She had cockeyes and jackass ears
And she hadn't been kissed for forty years,
Rinkydinky-parley-voo!"
As his musical effort ended, out from the dense jungle hemming in the
town burst a hideous roaring howl. Again and again it sounded in a
horrible crash of noise.
"Holy Saint Pat!" gasped Tim, throwing his rifle to port and bracing his
feet. "Now look what I went and done! Is that the echo, or a couple
dozen jaggers all fightin' to oncet?"
"Guariba, Senhor Ree-ann," snickered Joao. "Not jaguars--no. Only one
little guariba monkey. The howler."
"G'wan! Ye're kiddin'!"
"But no, _amigo_. It is as I tell you. One monkey. It is sunset, and the
jungle awakes."
"My gosh! I'll say it does. Sounds like a Sat'day night row in a Second
Av'noo saloon, except there ain't no shootin'. Guess you boys have some
night life, too, even if ye are away back in the bush."
"Time for us to move, Tim," laughed Knowlton. "It'll be dark in no time.
Joao, will you have our baggage moved to the hotel?"
"_Si_, senhor. _Immediatamente._ Antonio--Jorge--Rosario! And you, too,
Meldo--_vem cà_! Carry the bundles of the gentlemen to the hotel,
presto! Proceed, senhores. I, Joao d'Almeida Magalhaes Nabuco Pestana da
Fonseca, will remain here on guard until all your possessions have been
transported. Proceed without fear."