FIDDLERS THREE
Black looks passed among the men as the duplicity of Schwandorf lay
plain before their eyes. Tim growled. José hissed curses. The coronel
whirled to him.
"José! What was his object in trying to destroy you and your crew? You
have been his man. You know much about him. He wanted to stop your
mouth, yes? Dead men tell no tales."
The _puntero's_ eyes glittered. For a moment the others thought he was
about to reveal important secrets. Then his face changed.
"I know no reason why we should be killed," he declared.
"I do not believe you," the coronel declared, bluntly.
José shrugged, calmly drank the coronel's wine, lighted the coronel's
cigar, leaned back in the coronel's chair, and eyed the coronel with
imperturbable insolence.
"See here, José," demanded McKay, "you've had something up your sleeve
all along. Now come clean! What is it?"
José puffed airily at the cigar, saying nothing.
"What orders did Schwandorf give you?"
This time the reply came readily enough.
"To take you twenty-four days up the river and put you ashore. To
prevent any trouble before that time."
"Ah! And after that?"
"Nothing. At least, nothing to me. What may have been said to the other
men I do not know. Schwandorf came to me last, after he had picked all
the others."
"And what do you know about Schwandorf?"
"What is between me and Schwandorf will be settled between me and
Schwandorf. My duty to you señores lies only in handling the crew. Now
that there is no crew my duty ends. Also, Capitan, I would like my pay
now."
"You quit?"
"Why not? I have done my best. I can do no more. I am crippled. I am of
no further use to you. Give me my pay, a little food, a small canoe, and
I go."
"It is possible, Senhor José," spoke the coronel, with ironic
politeness, "that you may not go so soon. You have killed two men
recently. You refuse to reveal some things which should be known about
the German. Perhaps the law--"
José burst into a jeering laugh.
"Law? You speak of law? There is no law up the river but the law of the
gun and the knife. And if there were, señor, what then? I killed in a
fair fight. I killed men who would do murder. I killed on the west bank
of the river--Peru. Neither you nor any other Brazilian can lay hand on
me. And though I now have only one good arm, it will not be well for
anyone to try to hold me. My knife and my right hand still are ready."
"By cripes! the lad's right!" Tim blurted, impulsively. "And I'll tell
the world I'm for him. He's got a right to keep his mouth shut if he
wants to. He don't owe us nothin'. Mebbe he's got somethin' up his
sleeve, at that; but he stuck with us in the pinch, and--"
"And we'll give him a square deal, of course," Knowlton cut in. "José,
your own wages to this point, at a dollar a day, are eighteen dollars.
The wages of the five other men to the place where they--quit--would
aggregate seventy-five dollars. Grand total, ninety-three. The others
chose to take their pay in lead instead of gold, so their account is
closed. Therefore I suggest that their pay go to you as _puntero_,
_popero_, and good sport. What say, Rod?"
"Make it a hundred flat," McKay agreed.
"Right. A hundred in gold. Satisfy you, José?"
"Indeed yes, señor. I did not expect such generosity."
"That's all right, then. We'll fix you up before we move on, and--Say!
Are you in Schwandorf's pay, too?"
José hesitated. Then he replied:
"Since you mention it, I will admit that _el Aleman_ offered me certain
inducements to make this journey. I now see that he had no intention of
meeting his promises. But you can leave it to me to collect from him
whatever may be due."
Even the coronel nodded at this. The gleam in the Peruvian's eyes
presaged unpleasantness for Schwandorf.
"You gentlemen, of course, will not attempt to continue your journey for
the present," the coronel suggested. "You are fatigued and I shall
greatly appreciate the pleasure of your companionship. New arrangements
also will be necessary in the matter of a boat and men."
"We've been wondering about getting another boat and a new crew,"
Knowlton said, frankly. "The canoe we have is too big for three men to
handle, and I'll admit we're tired. José, too, is in no shape to travel
yet--"
"José, of course, is my guest also," the old gentleman interrupted. "The
question of new men can be solved. But there is time for everything, and
now is the time for all of you to rest. As our proverb has it, '_Devagar
se vae ao longe_'--he goes far who goes slowly."
McKay arose, glass in hand.
"To our host," he bowed. The toast was drunk standing. Whereafter the
host tapped the bell twice and 'Tonio reappeared with a tray of fresh
glasses. A toast to the United States by the coronel followed, and as
soon as the black man arrived with a third round the Republic of Brazil
was pledged. Then the coronel directed the servant:
"'Tonio, if Pedro and Lourenço are outside, ask them to move the
belongings of the gentlemen from the canoe. And make ready rooms for the
guests."
'Tonio disappeared down the ladder. The coronel raised the violin,
tendered it to the others, accepted their pleas to play it himself, and
for the next half hour acquitted himself with no mean ability. Snatches
of long-forgotten operas and improvisations of his own flowed from the
strings in smooth harmony, hinting at bygone years amid far different
surroundings for which his soul now hungered and to which he would
return. Pedro and Lourenço, transporting the equipment, passed in and
out soft-footed and almost unnoticed. At length the player, with a
deprecatory smile and a half apology for "boring his guests," extended
the instrument again toward the visitors. And McKay, silent McKay, took
it.
Sweet and low, out welled the haunting melody of "Annie Laurie." Tim,
who had listened with casual interest to the coronel's music, now
grinned happily. And when the plaintive Scotch song became "Kathleen
Mavourneen" he closed his eyes and lay back in pure enjoyment. "The
River Shannon" flowed into "The Suwanee River," and this in turn blended
into other heart-tugging airs of Dixieland. When the last strain died
and the captain reached for his half-smoked cigar the room was silent
for minutes.
Then, to the astonishment of all, José spoke:
"Señores, there was a time when I, too, could draw music from the
violin. If I may--" His eyes rested longingly on the instrument.
"_Certamente_, if you can use the arm," the coronel acquiesced. With a
little difficulty José drew his arm from the sling, balanced his left
elbow on the chair arm, and poised the violin. A half smile showed in
the eyes of the coronel as he glanced at his guests. He, and they as
well, expected a discordant, uncouth attempt to scrape out some obscene
ditty of the frontier.
But as José, after jockeying a bit, began drifting the bow across the
strings, the suppressed smiles faded and eyes opened. Here was a man
who, as he said, once could play. And he wasted no time on airs composed
by others and known to half the world. Under his touch the mellow wood
began to talk, and in the minds of the listeners grew pictures.
City streets, blank-walled houses, patios, the rattle of the hoofs of
burros over cobbles, the shuffle of human feet, the toll of bells from a
convent tower. Gay little bits of music, laughter, flashing eyes, a
voluptuous love song repeated over and over. A sudden wild outbreak,
fighting men, shots, the clash of steel--again a tolling bell and a
requiem for the dead. A horse galloping in the night. Mountain winds
crooning mournfully, rising to the scream of tempest and the crash of
thunder. Dreary uplands, the hiss of rain, the sough of drifting snow,
the patient plod of a mule along a perilous trail. And then the jungle:
its discordant uproar, its hammering of frogs, its hoots and howls, the
dismal swash of flood waters. A monotonous ebb and flow of life,
punctuated by sudden flares of fight. Then a long, mournful wail--and
silence.
His bow still on the strings, José sat for a minute like a stone image,
his eyes straight ahead, his pale face drawn, his red kerchief glowing
dully in the semishadow like a cap of blood. For once his face was empty
of all insolence, changed by a pathetic wistfulness that made it tragic.
Then, wordless, he lowered the violin, held it out to the coronel,
fumbled absently at his sling, and slowly incased his wounded arm. When
he looked up his old mocking expression had come back and he once more
looked the reckless buccaneer.
For a time no one spoke. Each felt that he had glimpsed something of
this man's past; felt, too, that he who now was a bloody-handed borderer
had once been a _caballero_, moving in a much higher circle. Certainly
he could not play like this unless he had been of the upper class in his
youth. The coronel's face was thoughtful as he took back the violin.
When at length he began to talk, however, it was on a topic as remote as
possible from music and present personalities--the reconstruction of
Europe as the result of the World War.
With this and kindred subjects, aided by the attentive ministrations of
'Tonio, the afternoon passed swiftly. Dinner proved a feast, the _pièce
de résistance_ being tender, well-cooked meat which the Americans took
for roast beef, but which really was roast tapir. More cigars, coupled
with the fatigue of the past two days of paddling, eventually caused the
visitors to seek their rooms, where McKay and Knowlton paired off and
Tim took José as his "bunkie."
When Tim awoke the next morning he found himself deserted.
To Knowlton, who drew from the small gold-chest the hundred dollars
allotted to José and handed it to him before redressing his wound, the
_puntero_ quietly revealed his intention to go before sunrise.
"Say nothing, señor," he requested. "You need know nothing of it, if you
like. I am here to-night--I am gone to-morrow--that is all. I am of no
further use to you, I am unwelcome in this house of Nunes, and I go. Oh,
have no fear for me! I have my gun, my knife, and my good right arm, and
I can take care of myself very well. No doubt the coronel will be
astonished to find that on leaving to-night I have neither cut anyone's
throat nor stolen anything--ha! I have a black name on this river, and
it is well earned, perhaps. Yet few men are as bad as those who dislike
them think they are. I may borrow a small canoe, but any Indian would do
the same. An unoccupied canoe is any man's property.
"Before our ways part, señor, let me say that as José Martinez never
forgets his enemies, so he never forgets friends. Where some men would
have turned me loose like a sick dog with my eighteen dollars, you and
Señor McKay give me a hundred. And far more than that, you saved my life
at a time when many men would have said, 'Bah! let the bloody one die!
He is nothing but scum of the border and leader of that murdering crew.'
You had only to let me lie a few minutes longer and you would be rid of
me. No, José does not forget.
"That is all, except--if you will, in parting, take the hand of a man
known as a killer and other things--"
Knowlton gripped that hand with swift heartiness. He would have
protested against such a departure, but the other's steady gaze
betokened inflexible purpose. So he merely said:
"Then good luck, old chap! And if you meet Schwandorf give him our
affectionate regards."
"_Si_, señor," was the sardonic answer. "I will do that thing. And here
is something that may be of interest to you. I happen to know that
before we left Remate de Males a swift one-man canoe left Nazareth, and
that the man in it was an Indian who is in the German's control. It went
upstream while we were loading your supplies, and it has not returned.
By this time it must be many hours above this place. I do not know what
message that Indian carries, nor where he goes. But he is a short man,
and his left leg is crooked. If you meet such a one make him talk.
Good-by, señor."
Just how and when the _puntero_ cat-footed his way out that night none
ever knew but himself. But before the next dawn he had vanished from the
Brazilian shore.