COLD STEEL
Some two hours after the start, while Knowlton and Tim loafed at the
fore end of the cabin, enjoying the comparative coolness of the early
day, another boat hove in sight up ahead--a longish craft manned by
eight paddlers and without a cabin.
As it came into view its bowman tossed his paddle in greeting. The
Peruvians ignored the salutation. The bowman, after shading his eyes and
peering at the flamboyant figure of José, resumed paddling without
further ceremony, evidently intending to pass in silence. But then McKay
arose, waved a hand, and told José to steer for the newcomers. José,
with a slightly sour look, gave the signal to Francisco, and the course
changed.
The other canoe slowed and waited. Its men watched the tall figure of
McKay. Tim and Knowlton scanned the bronzed faces of those men and liked
them at once. The paddlers evidently were Brazilians, but of a different
type from the sluggish townsmen of Remate de Males--alert,
active-looking fellows, steady of eye, honest of face, muscular of
arm--in all, a more clean-cut set of men than the Peruvians. All three
of the Americans noticed that no word was exchanged between the two
crews.
"_Boa dia, amigos!_" spoke McKay. "Who are you and whence do you come?"
"We are rubber workers of Coronel Nunes, senhor," the bowman answered,
civilly. "We go to make a new camp. This land is a part of the
_seringel_ of the coronel, and we left his headquarters yesterday."
"Ah! Then the headquarters is above here?"
"One more day's journey," the man nodded.
"I thank you. Good fortune go with you."
"And with you, senhor. May God protect you."
With the words the Brazilian glanced along the line of Peruvian faces
and his eyes narrowed. Though his words were only a respectful farewell,
his expressive face indicated that McKay might be badly in need of
divine protection at no distant date. As his paddle dipped and his men
nodded their leave-taking, Francisco, the _popero_; sneered raucously:
"Hah! Mere _caucheros_! Workers! Slaves!"
And he spat at the Brazilian boat.
Fire shot into the eyes of the bowman and his comrades. Their muscles
tensed.
"Better be slaves--better be dogs--than Peruvian cutthroats!" one
retorted. "Go your way, and keep to your own side of the river."
"We go where we will, and no misborn Brazilians can stop us," snarled
Francisco. To which he added obscene epithets directed against
Brazilians in general and the men of Coronel Nunes in particular.
The unprovoked insults angered the Americans as well as the Brazilians.
Knowlton leaped through the _toldo_ and confronted Francisco.
"Shut your dirty mouth!" he blazed.
For reply, the evil-eyed steersman spat at him the vilest name known to
man.
An instant later, his lips split, he sprawled dazedly on his platform,
perilously close to the edge. Knowlton, the knuckles of his left fist
bleeding from impact with the other's teeth, stood over him in white
fury. Francisco's right hand fumbled for his knife. Knowlton promptly
stamped on that hand with a heavy boot heel.
"Good eye, Looey!" rumbled Tim's voice at his back. "Boot him some more
for luck. Hey, you! Back up or I'll drill ye for keeps!" This to a pair
of the Peruvian paddlers who had come scrambling through the cabin.
After one searching stare into Tim's hard blue eyes and a glance at his
fist curled around the butt of his belt gun, the _bogas_ backed up. A
moment later they were thrown boldly into their own part of the boat by
José, who blistered them with the profanity of three languages at once.
Then McKay came through and took charge.
"That'll do, Tim! Same goes for you, Merry! José, I'll handle this. You,
Francisco! Get up!"
The curt commands struck like blows. Every man obeyed. And when the
squat steersman again stood up McKay went after him roughshod. In the
colloquial Spanish of Mexico and the Argentine, in the man talk of
American army camps, he flayed that offender alive. José himself,
efficient man handler though he was, stared at his captain in awe. And
Francisco, though not given to cringing, skulked like a beaten dog when
the verbal flagellation was finished.
Turning then to the Brazilians, McKay formally apologized for the
insults to them.
"It is nothing, senhor," coolly answered the bowman--though his glance
at the Peruvians said plainly that it would have been something but for
the swift punishment by the Americans. "Again I say--may God protect
you! Adeos!"
The Brazilian boat glided away. The Peruvian craft crawled on upstream
in silence.
When the next camp was made all apparently had forgotten the affair. The
men badgered one another as usual, though none mentioned Francisco's
split mouth; and Francisco, himself, albeit sulky, betrayed no sign of
enmity. After nightfall the regular camp-fire meeting was held and at
the usual time all turned in. One more night of listening to the sounds
of the tropical wilderness seemed all that lay ahead of the secret
sentinels.
Sleep enveloped the huts. Snores and gurgles rose and fell. Tim himself,
for the sake of effect, snored heartily at intervals, though his eyes
never closed. Through his mosquito bar he could see only vaguely, but he
knew any man walking from the crew's quarters must cast a very visible
shadow across that net, and to him the shadow would be as good a warning
as a clear view of the substance. But the hours crept on and no shadow
came.
At length, however, a small sound reached his alert ear--a sound
different from the regular noises of the bush--a stealthy, creeping
noise like that of a big snake or a huge lizard. It came from the ground
a few feet away, and it seemed to be gradually advancing toward his own
hammock. Whatever the creature was that made it, its method of progress
was not human, but reptilian. Puzzled, suspicious, yet doubtful, Tim
lifted the rear side of his net, on which no moonlight fell. Head out,
he watched for the crawling thing to come close.
It came, and for an instant he was in doubt as to its character, for
around it lay the deep shadow of some treetops which at that point
blocked off the moon. It inched along on its stomach, its black head
seeming round and minus a face, its body broad but flat--a thing that
looked to be a man but not a man. Then, pausing, it raised its head and
peered toward the hammock of Knowlton. With that movement Tim's doubts
vanished. The lifting of the head showed the face--the face of
Francisco, the face of murder. In its teeth was clamped a bare knife.
Forthwith Tim applied General Order Number Thirteen.
In one bound he was outside his net, colliding with Knowlton, who awoke
instantly. In another he was beside the assassin, who, with a lightning
grab at the knife in his mouth, had started to spring up. Tim wasted no
time in grappling or clinching. He kicked.
His heavy boot, backed by the power of a hundred and ninety pounds of
brawn, thudded into the Indian's chest. Francisco was hurled over
sidewise on his back. Another kick crashed against his head above the
ear. He went limp.
"Ye lousy snake!" grated Tim. "Crawlin' on yer belly to knife a sleepin'
man, hey? Blast yer rotten heart--"
"What's up?" barked McKay from his hammock.
"Night attack, Cap. If ye're comin' out bring along yer gat. Hey, Looey,
got yer gun on? Some o' these other guys might git gay. They're comin'
now."
True enough, the Peruvian gang was jumping from its hut. With another
glance at the prostrate Francisco to make sure he was unconscious, Tim
whirled to meet them, fist on gun.
"Halt!" he roared. "First guy passin' this corner post gits shot. Back
up!"
The impact of his voice, the menace of his ready gun hand, the sight of
Knowlton and McKay leaping out with pistols drawn, stopped the rush at
the designated post. But swift hands dropped, and when they rose again
the moonlight glinted on cold steel.
"Capitan, what happens here?" demanded José, ominously quiet.
"Knife work," McKay replied, curtly. "Your man Francisco attempted to
creep in and murder Señor Knowlton. If you and the rest have similar
intentions, now's your time to try. If not, put away those knives."
"Knives! _Por Dios_, what do you mean?"
"Look behind you."
José looked. At once he snarled curses and commands. Slowly the knives
slipped out of sight. The paddlers edged backward to their own shack,
leaving their _puntero_ alone.
"The capitan has it wrong," asserted José. "We awake to find our
_popero_ being kicked in the head. We want to know why. If Francisco has
done what you say I will deal with him. That I may be sure, allow me to
look."
"Very well. Look."
José advanced, stooped, studied the ground, the position of Francisco's
body, the knife still clutched in the nerveless hand. Tim growlingly
vouchsafed a brief explanation of the incident. When José straightened
up, his mouth was a hard line and his eyes hot coals.
"_Si. Es verdad._ To-morrow we shall have a new _popero_."
With which he stooped again, grasped the prone man by the hair, dragged
him into the moonlit space between the huts, and flung him down. "Juan,
bring water!" he ordered.
One of the paddlers, looking queerly at him, did so. José deluged the
senseless man. Francisco, reviving, sat up and scowled about him. His
eyes rested on the three Americans standing grimly ready, shoulder to
shoulder, before their hut; veered to his mates bunched in sinister
silence beside their own quarters; shifted again to meet the baleful
glare of José. His hand stole to his empty sheath.
"Your knife, Francisco _mio_?" queried José, a menacing purr in his
tone. "I have it. It seems that you are in haste to use it. Too much
haste, Francisco. But if you will stand instead of crawling as before,
you may have your knife again--and use it, too."
Francisco, staring sullenly up, seemed to read in the words more than
was evident to the Americans. He lurched to his feet, staggered, caught
his balance, braced himself, stood waiting.
"You know who commands here," José went on. "You disobey. You seek to
stab in the night--"
"Now or later--what is the difference?"
"--and now the boat is too small for both of us." José ignored the
interruption. "Here is your knife. Now use it!"
He flipped the weapon at the other, who caught it deftly. José dropped
his right hand to his waist. An instant later naked steel licked out at
Francisco's throat.
The steersman's knife flashed up, caught the reaching blade, knocked it
with a scraping clink. For a few seconds the two weapons seemed welded
together, their owners each striving to bear down the other's wrist.
Then they parted as the combatants sprang back.
José side-stepped twice to his right. Francisco, turning to preserve his
guard, now had the light full in his face. But the moon rode so high
that the steersman's disadvantage was negligible, and the next assault
of the _puntero_ was blocked as before. And this time the wrist of the
_popero_ proved a bit the better; he threw the attacking steel aside and
struck in a slashing sweep at his antagonist's stomach.
A convulsive inward movement of the bowman's middle, coupled with a
swift back-step, made the slash miss by a hair's breadth. With the
quickness of light José was in again. His knife hand, still outstretched
sidewise, stopped with a light smack of flesh on flesh. Then it jerked
outward. His steel now was red to the hilt.
One more rapid step back, a keen glance at his opponent, and José stood
at ease. From Francisco burst a bubbling groan. He staggered. His knife
dropped. His hands rose fumblingly toward his neck. Suddenly his knees
gave way and he toppled backward to the ground. The silvery moonlight
disclosed a dark flood welling from his severed jugular.
With the utmost coolness José ran two fingers down his wet blade,
snapped the fingers in air, and spoke to his crew:
"As I said, we shall have a new _popero_. To-morrow, Julio, you will
take the platform."
A rumble ran among the men. Their eyes lifted from Francisco to the
Americans, and in them shone a wolfish gleam. The bowman turned sharply
and faced them.
"Who growls?" he rasped. "You, Julio?"
"_Si, yo soy_," Julio answered, harshly, fingering his knife. "I will be
steersman, but I steer downstream, not up. Francisco spoke the truth.
Now or later--what is the difference? Let it be now!"
A louder growl from the others followed his words. One stepped back into
the shadow of the hut.
"_Perros amarillos!_ Yellow dogs! You go upstream, fools! The Americans
must be taken--"
A raucous sneer from Julio interrupted him. Simultaneously the paddler's
hand leaped upward, poising a knife.
"The gringos stay here--and you, too, you Yanqui cur!"
The poised knife hissed through the air at José.
Out from the crew house shot a streak of fire and a smashing rifle
report.
José dodged, staggered, screeched in feline fury, the knife buried in
his left arm.
McKay grunted suddenly, fell, lay still.
"God!" yelled Tim. "Cap's gone! Clean 'em, Looey!"
With the words he leaped aside and pulled his pistol, just as another
rifle flare stabbed out from the other hut and a bullet whisked through
the space where he had stood. An instant later he was pouring a stream
of lead at the spot whence the burning powder had leaped.
Knives flashing, teeth gleaming, the other paddlers charged across the
ten-foot space between the huts.
José, his left arm helpless, but his deadly right hand still gripping
his knife, hurled himself on Julio, who had seized a machete from
somewhere.
Knowlton slammed a bullet between the eyes of the foremost _boga_, who
pitched headlong. He swung the muzzle to the other man's chest--yanked
at the trigger--got no response. The gun was jammed.
With a triumphant snarl the blood-crazed Peruvian closed in, slashing
for the throat. Knowlton slipped aside, evaded the thrust, swung the
pistol down hard on his assailant's head. The man reeled, thrust again
blindly, missed. Knowlton crashed his dumb gun down again. It struck
fair on the temple. The man collapsed.
Tim was charging across the open at the crew house. José and Julio were
locked in a death grapple. No other living man, except Knowlton, still
stood upright. Stooping, he peered into the red-dyed face of McKay. Then
he laid a hand on the captain's chest. Faint but regular, he felt the
heart beating.
"Thank God!" he breathed. With a wary eye on the battling Peruvians he
swiftly raised the captain and put him into Tim's hammock. As he turned
back to the fight Tim emerged from the other hut, carrying a body, which
he dropped and swiftly inspected. At the same moment the fight of José
and Julio ended.
With a choked scream Julio dropped, writhed, doubled up. Then he lay
still. José, his face ghastly, stared around him. His mouth stretched in
a terrible smile.
"So this ends it," he croaked, his gaze dropping to Julio. "_Adios_,
Julio! The machete is not--so good as the knife--unless one has--room
to--swing it--"
He chuckled hoarsely and sank down.
For an instant Knowlton hesitated, his glance going back and forth
between McKay and José. Swiftly then he ran his finger tips over McKay's
head. With a murmur of satisfaction he turned from his comrade and
hurried to the motionless bowman, over whom Tim now bent.
"Bleedin' to death, Looey," informed Tim. "Ain't cut bad excep' that
arm. That flyin' knife must have got an artery. Can we pull him through?
He's a good skate."
"I'll try. You look after Cap. He's only knocked out--bullet creased
him--"
"Glory be! He's all right, huh? Sure I'll fix him up. Everybody else
dead? I got that guy in the bunk house--drilled him three times."
"Look out for that fellow over there. Maybe I brained him, but I'm not
sure."
Knowlton was already down on his knees beside José, working fast to loop
a tourniquet and stop the flow from the pierced arm. With a handkerchief
and his pistol barrel he shut off the pulsating stream.
"Yeah, he's done," judged Tim, rising from the man whom Knowlton had
downed at last. "Skull's caved in. What 'd ye paste him with?"
"Gun. Cursed thing stuck."
"Uh-huh. Them automats are cranky. Say, lookit the mess Hozy made o'
that guy Hooley-o."
Knowlton glanced at Julio and whistled. José's oft-repeated threat to
disembowel a refractory member of the crew had at last been literally
fulfilled.
But the lieutenant had seen worse sights in the shell-torn trenches of
France, and now he kept his mind on his work. Wedging the gun to hold
the tourniquet tight, he lifted his patient from the red-smeared mud and
bore him to the nearest hammock in the crew quarters. Striding back, he
found Tim alternately bathing McKay's head and giving him brandy. In a
moment the captain's eyes opened.
"Some bean ye got, Cap," congratulated Tim, vastly relieved at sight of
McKay's gray stare. "Bullet bounced right off. Here, take another
swaller. Attaboy! Hey, Looey, we better pack this crease o' Cap's, huh?
She keeps leakin'."
"Yep. Dip up the surgical kit. And give José a drink. I'll have to tie
his artery, too. How do you feel, old chap?"
"Dizzy," McKay confessed. "What's happened?"
"Lost our crew," was the laconic answer. "All gone west but José, and
he's bled white. We'll have to paddle our own canoe now."
For a time after his head was bandaged McKay lay quiet, staring out at
the tiny battlefield and at his two mates working silently on the
wounded arm of José. When they came back he spoke one word.
"Schwandorf."
"Yeah! He's the nigger in the woodpile, I bet my shirt. But why? What's
his lay, d'ye s'pose?"
"Perhaps José knows," suggested Knowlton. "But he's in no shape to talk
now. Let's see. Schwandorf said he was going to Iquitos?"
"Yes, but that doesn't mean anything."
"Probably not. Well, maybe José can explain."
There were some things, however, which José could not have told if he
would, for he himself did not know them. One was that Schwandorf really
had gone to Iquitos, where was a radio station. Another was that from
that radio station to Puerto Bermudez, thence over the Andes to the
coast, and northward to a New York address memorized from Knowlton's
notebook, already had gone this message:
McKay expedition killed by Indians. Rand search most dangerous, but
if empowered I attempt locate him for fifty thousand gold payable
on safe delivery Rand at Manaos. Reply soon a possible.
KARL SCHWANDORF.