THE DOUBLE-CROSS
Noon, sweltering hot. A blazing sun pouring vertical rays down on a
blinding river. A long canoe wearily creeping up the glaring waters,
minus a lookout, heedless of the ever-present danger of sunken tree
trunks; propelled by three sun-blistered white men, one of whom wore a
bandage around his head; steered perfunctorily by a pallid pirate whose
left arm hung in a sling. Atop the right bank an unbroken, endless
tangle of jungle growth. Ahead, on the left shore, a gap gouged out of
the forest and a number of boats at the water's edge.
"Guess that's it," panted Knowlton, shielding his eyes and squinting at
the clearing. "One more day's journey, the Brazilian chap said. We've
been two and a half."
"One day's journey for six hardened rivermen, señor," corrected José.
"Not for three men doing six men's work and hampered by a cripple."
"Aw, ye're no crip, Hozy," dissented Tim. "Any guy that can steer a tub
like this here one-handed after losin' a couple gallons o' juice is in
good shape yet, I'll say. If ye had both legs shot off and yer arms
broke and yer head stove in, now, ye might call yourself sort o'
helpless. Ease her over to the left a li'l' more, so's we'll hit the
bank right at the corner o' that gap. Me, I don't want to take one
stroke more 'n I have to. Every muscle in me is so sore it squeaks."
"Same here," admitted Knowlton. "I'm one solid ache."
José nodded. The clumsy craft veered a bit. The three put a little more
punch into their lagging strokes, noting, as they neared the steep bank,
that a couple of men had appeared at its top and were staring at them.
Gradually the long dugout worked in to the muddy shore, where the
paddlers stabbed their blades into the clay and held it firm.
"Ahoy, up there! This the Nunes _seringal_?"
From the edge, some thirty feet above, the taller of the two watchers
answered:
"_Si_, senhor. The headquarters of the coronel. Do you come to visit
him?"
"Right."
"Then permit me to help you. The path is a little ahead. Pull up and tie
to this stake."
The tall fellow came dropping swiftly downward. At the same time the
other Brazilian stepped back and was gone.
With a dexterous twist the man of Nunes moored the boat to the
designated stake. Then he reached a hand toward Tim to help him out.
"I ain't no old woman, feller," Tim refused, and hopped aground
unassisted. McKay and Knowlton followed. But José, after moving
languidly forward and contemplating the sharp slope, hesitated and then
shrugged his shoulders.
"I am tired, señores," he said. "And perhaps it would be well for one to
stay here and watch."
The tall Brazilian's eyes narrowed.
"There is no danger of loss," he asserted, with dignity. "We men of the
coronel are not thieves."
The slight emphasis of his last sentence might have been taken as an
intimation that some one else not far away would bear watching. José's
mouth tightened. For a moment Brazilian and Peruvian eyed each other in
obvious dislike. Then, with a glance at his crippled arm, José shrugged
again.
"Better come along, José," McKay said. "Stuff's safe enough."
"As you will, Capitan."
He lounged to the edge, hesitated, wavered slightly. At once the
Brazilian darted out a hand and gave him support. And while the four
clambered up the slope he retained a grip on the Peruvian's arm, aiding
him to the top. When they emerged on the level, however, he dropped his
hand immediately. José gave him a half-mocking bow of thanks, to which
he replied with a short nod. Then he stepped back and let the Peruvian
precede him toward a number of substantial pole-supported houses a
hundred yards away.
"No love lost between them two," thought Tim, who had watched it all.
"Good skate, though, this new feller. Ready to help a guy that needs it,
whether he likes him or not; ready to knock his block off, too, if he
needs that. Bet he'd be a hellion in a scrap. Dang good-lookin' lad,
too."
Wherewith he introduced himself.
"Don't git sore because I growled at ye down below," he said, with a
friendly grin. "Sounded rough, mebbe, but that's my style. I'm Tim Ryan,
from the States. I bark more 'n I bite."
The overture met with instant response--a quick smile and a twinkle in
the warm eyes.
"It is not words that give offense, senhor, but the way they are
spoken--and the man who speaks them. One man may growl, but you like
him. Another may speak smoothly, but you itch to strike him. Is it not
so? I am Pedro Andrada, a _seringueiro_ who should be tapping trees
instead of loafing here. But my partner and I have just come in from a
long trip into the _sertao_--wilderness--and are resting."
"Yeah? Was that yer buddy I seen with ye?"
"My--ah--buddee? Partner? Yes, that was he--Lourenço Moraes, the best
comrade one ever had. He has gone to tell the coronel of your arrival.
Have you met with an accident downriver?"
He moved a thumb meaningly toward the only remaining member of the crew.
"Yeah," grimly. "Bad accident."
Tim tapped his pistol significently, raised five fingers, winked, and
twitched his head toward the Peruvian. Pedro lifted his brows, nodded
quick understanding, pointed to the bad arm of José, and made motions as
if pulling a trigger. Tim shook his head and enacted the pantomime of
drawing and throwing a knife. Whereat the Brazilian, aware that José was
not a prisoner and probably knowing that North Americans were not knife
throwers, looked much puzzled. But their sign manual went no farther,
for they now approached the house which evidently formed the dwelling
and office of Coronel Nunes.
At the foot of the ladder stood a broad-shouldered, square-jawed,
thick-muscled, deeply tanned man, who, without speaking, pointed a thumb
upward. Above, in the doorway, waited an elderly Brazilian of medium
height and spare figure, standing with soldierly erectness and garbed in
white duck of semimilitary cut. He beamed down at McKay and Knowlton,
but as his black eyes encountered those of José they seemed suddenly to
become very sharp. Then his gaze rested on Tim's broad face and he
smiled again.
"Enter, gentlemen," he invited. "_Esta casa e a suas ordenes_--this
house is at your disposal."
McKay, with a bow, climbed the ladder, followed by Knowlton. José, with
a swaggering stare at the wide-shouldered man, who stared straight back
without facial change, also went up. Tim came fourth and last, for Pedro
stopped beside his countryman, who evidently was Lourenço.
The travelers found themselves in a room which, in view of its distance
from civilization, seemed palatial. Its floor was tight, its furniture
modern, its walls decorated with a few excellent pictures, of which the
largest was a superb view of the rugged harbor of Rio de Janeiro.
Comfortable chairs were ranged along the walls, and the middle of the
room was occupied by a massive square-cornered table on which lay a
jumble of hand-written business papers, a number of books, a high-grade
violin and bow. Beyond the table stood a swivel chair, evidently the
usual seat of the coronel. Table and chair were so arranged that the
master of this house sat always with his back to a wall and his face
toward the door. And on a couple of hooks on that wall, ready for
instant service, hung a high-power rifle.
On their way up the river the Americans had passed, at long intervals, a
few small rubber estates, whose headquarters consisted mainly of a crude
shack or two, hardly better than the dingy houses of Remate de Males.
This place was more imposing. They had observed, while crossing the
cleared space, that it was at least half a mile square; that its
warehouse for supplies was big and solid; that a goodly number of
_barracaos_, or rubber workers' huts, surrounded the house of the master
at a respectful distance; and that the owner's home was no one-room
cabin, but big enough to contain six or eight rooms. This well-appointed
reception room and the formal yet sincere courtesy of its owner showed
that Coronel Nunes was no mere native of the frontier. Later they were
to learn that he was a gentleman of Rio who, exiling himself from the
capital after the death of his wife, had carved from this forbidding
jungle a fortune in the rubber trade.
With the correct touch of Latin punctilio McKay spoke the introductions
and stated that they were on their way upriver to explore the
hinterland. With equal politeness the coronel bowed and begged his
illustrious guests to be seated. Then he touched a small bell. A door at
one side opened and a white-suited negro appeared.
"Café," the coronel ordered. As speedily as if these visitors had been
long expected, the servant brought in a tray bearing cups of syrupy
coffee. Each of the guests accepted one. Whereafter the decorum of the
occasion was shattered by Tim, who, at the imminent risk of scalding
himself, gulped his refreshment and vociferated his satisfaction.
"O-o-oh boy! That hits right where I live! Gimme another one, feller,
and make it man's size!"
The black fellow struggled with his quick mirth and then laughed
outright--the throaty, infectious laugh of his race. The coronel's eyes
twinkled. And when Tim fished a damp cigarette from his shirt,
nonchalantly scraped a match on his host's table, blew a cloud of smoke,
and sprawled back with one leg dangling over a chair arm, formality went
a-glimmering.
"_A quem madruga Deus ajuda_," laughed the coronel. "Or, as you North
Americans put it, 'God helps those who help themselves.' Let us not be
ceremonious, gentlemen. 'Tonio, bring more coffee. And cigars. And--"
Down behind his table, where only the servant saw the motion, he
twitched a finger as if pulling a cork. 'Tonio, his ebony countenance
split by a grin, ducked his head and vanished into the other room.
"How is the rubber market, sir?" asked Knowlton, seeking to divert
attention from Tim.
"Not so good," the old gentleman replied, with a deprecatory gesture.
"In truth, it is very poor since the war--so poor that soon I shall
abandon this _seringal_ and go out to spend the rest of my life on the
coast. With rubber selling at a mere five hundred dollars a ton in New
York and the artificial plantations of the Far East growing greater
yearly, there is no longer much profit in bleeding the wild trees of our
jungle. I really do not know why I stay here now, unless it is because I
have become so much accustomed to this life."
"Why, I understood that there was much money in rubber!"
"You speak truth--there was. Now there is not. The world moves and times
change. Years ago foreigners came into Brazil, helped themselves to the
seed of our wild trees, and planted it in Ceylon and the Malay region.
That seed now bears such fruit that the world is flooded with rubber.
Ten years ago, senhores, a ton sold for six thousand five hundred
dollars. Now, in this year nineteen-twenty, the price is only
one-thirteenth of what it was in those days. It scarcely pays for the
gathering. I hope you have not come expecting to make fortunes in
rubber."
"No. We are here to find a race of men known as Red Bones."
The coronel's brows lifted. They kept on lifting, and he opened his lips
twice without speaking. After a long stare at Knowlton he looked at
McKay, at Tim, and finally at José. A frown grew on his face. And the
Americans, following his look at the Peruvian, were surprised to see
that José himself was staring blankly at the speaker.
"José Martinez!" snapped the coronel, leveling a finger pistollike at
the _puntero_. "What devil's game are you working now?"
José recovered himself and lifted his coffee cup.
"I do not understand you, Nunes," he replied, languidly. "I am but the
humble _puntero_ of the crew engaged by these señores. My only work has
been to earn my pay. And you may ask _el capitan_ whether I have earned
it."
"Ay, he has," corroborated McKay. "Killed two of his own crew in our
defense."
The coronel's jaw dropped. He blinked as if disbelieving his ears.
"He--José? Not possible!" he stuttered. "José--this man--defended you
against his companions?"
"Exactly."
The Brazilian slowly shook his head. Then suddenly he nodded as if an
illuminating thought had crossed his mind.
"I see. José is very well paid."
"One dollar a day," was McKay's dry retort.
At that moment 'Tonio re-entered with a larger tray than before, bearing
more coffee, long cigars, and squat glasses in which glowed a golden
liquid. Tim sat up with a grunt and helped himself with both hands. When
the coronel's turn came he disregarded the drinks, but lit the cigar as
if he needed it.
"_De noite todos os gatos sao pardos_," he said. "At night all cats are
gray. I am much in the dark, gentlemen. If you would be so good as to
enlighten me--"
He paused, looking sidewise again at José as if the _puntero_ had
suddenly grown wings or horns.
"All right," nodded Knowlton, biting and lighting his cigar. "We are
somewhat in the dark ourselves as to why José has been so zealous, for
he has been very taciturn since the recent fight at our camp. Perhaps
José also is a bit hazy about our expedition--he looked rather surprised
just now. So here is the situation."
Briefly then he outlined the object of the search, stating that the
identity of the mysterious Raposa was a matter of some concern to
certain persons in the United States and that the expedition had been
formed with the view of settling the question. From the time of the
landing at Remate de Males, however, he narrated events more fully,
giving complete details of Schwandorf's activities, Francisco's offense,
and the final attack by the crew. While he talked the coronel's frown
deepened. Also, José gradually assumed the expression of a thundercloud.
And when the tale was done the _puntero_ exploded.
"_Sangre de Cristo!_" he yelled. "_El Aleman_--the German--he told you
we would go among the cannibals? We? Peruvians? _Madre de Dios!_ If ever
I get within knife length of him! Nunes, you see, do you not?"
The coronel nodded grimly.
"I see that he planned to have all of you destroyed. Senhor Knowlton,
that black-bearded and black-hearted man suggested that you take
Mayoruna women? He told you they were shapely of body and tried to put
into your minds the thought of making them your paramours? The snake!
"He did not tell you, then, that the Mayoruna men allow no trifling with
their women; that any alien man attempting to embrace one of them would
be killed. But it is true. If you should succeed in establishing
friendly relations with the men--which is not at all likely--you would
forfeit all friendship, and your lives as well, by the slightest
dalliance with any of the women.
"He told you that more than one man has risked his life to win a
Mayoruna woman? That is true. But he gave you a false impression as to
the way in which the risk was incurred. He did not tell you that
Peruvian _caucheros_ have sometimes raided small isolated _melocas_ of
the Mayorunas, shooting down the men and carrying off the girls to be
victims of their bestial lust. He did not tell you that for this reason
any Peruvian is considered their enemy and is killed without mercy
wherever found. Yet he tried to send you with Peruvian guides into their
country. He knew the Peruvians would be killed on sight--and you with
them."