THE ARROW
Slowly, silently, two canoes glided along the still, dark water of a
gloomy creek over-arched by the interlaced limbs of lofty trees.
The first, propelled by the slow-dipping blades of two Brazilian
bushmen, seemed to be seeking something; for it nosed along with
frequent pauses of the paddles, during which it drifted almost to a stop
while its crew searched the solemn jungle depths reaching away from the
right-hand shore. The second, carrying three bronzed and bearded men of
another continent, was only trailing the leader. It moved and paused
like the first, but the recurrent scrutiny of the farther gloom by its
paddlers was that of men who saw only a meaningless, monotonous bulk of
buttresses and trunks and tangle of looping lianas. In this dimness and
bewildering chaos the trio might as well have been blind. The eyes of
the tiny fleet were in the first boat.
The progress of the dugouts was almost stealthy. Not a paddle thumped or
splashed, not a voice spoke. They moved with the alert caution born not
of fear, but of wary readiness for any sudden event--like prowling
jungle creatures which, themselves seeking quarry, must be ever on guard
lest they become the hunted instead of the hunters.
For the past two days they had moved thus. The last fresh meat had been
shot miles down the river, where a well-placed bullet from the rifle of
McKay had downed a fat swamp deer. Since that day not a gun had been
fired. The rations now were tough jerked beef and monkey meat, slabs of
salt pirarucu fish, and farinha, varied by tinned delicacies from the
stores of the Americans. Henceforth gunfire was taboo unless it should
become necessary in self-defense.
At length the fore canoe halted with an abruptness that told of back
strokes of the blades hidden under water. McKay, bowman of the trailing
craft, also backed water, while his mates held their paddles rigid. The
two boats drifted together.
"This is the place," Lourenço said, speaking low.
The Americans, scanning the shore, saw nothing to differentiate the spot
from the rest of the wilderness growth. Yet Lourenço's tone was sure.
Pedro's face also showed recognition of his surroundings. With no
apparent motion of the paddles--though the wrists of the paddlers moved
almost imperceptibly--the canoe of the bushmen floated to the bank. They
picked up their rifles, twitched their bow up on land, and turned their
faces to the forest.
"Stay here," was Pedro's subdued command, "until you hear the bird-call
which we taught you down the river."
He and Lourenço faded into the dimness and were gone.
"Beats me how them guys find their way 'round," muttered Tim. "I could
land here twenty times hand-runnin', but if I went away and then come
back I'd never know the place."
"It's all in the feel of it," was McKay's low-toned explanation. "They
find places and travel the bush as an Indian does--by a sixth sense.
Take them to New York City, guide them around, then turn them loose--and
they'd be hopelessly lost in ten minutes."
The others nodded agreement and sat watching. In the shadows no creature
moved. Afar off some bird cried mournfully like a lost soul condemned to
wander forever alone in the grim green solitudes. No other sound came to
the listeners save the ever-present hum of the big forest mosquitoes, to
which they now had become indifferent. For all they could see or hear of
their two guides, they might as well have been alone. Yet they knew the
Brazilians were not far away, threading the maze with sure step and
scouting hawk-eyed for any sign of danger.
At length a long soft whistle sounded in the bush ahead. Any Indian
hunter hearing that sound would straightway have begun scanning the high
branches, for the liquid call was that of the mutum, or curassow turkey.
But the waiting trio knew it for Pedro's signal that all was clear. At
once they slid their canoe to shore, lifted its bow to a firm grip on
the clay, and, after plumbing the shadows, quietly advanced in squad
column.
A few steps, and they halted suddenly and whirled. A voice had spoken
just behind them. There, squatting leisurely between the root buttresses
of a huge tree, Lourenço looked up at them in amusement. They had passed
within rifle length of him without seeing him.
"Of what use are your eyes, comrades?" he chaffed. "In the bush one
should see in all directions at once. You were looking at that patch of
sunlight just ahead, yes? But danger lurks in the shadows, not in the
glaring light."
Without awaiting an answer, he arose and took the lead. At the edge of
the small sunlit space beyond he halted.
"You were heading for the right place," he added then. "Look around. Do
you see anything?"
Swiftly they scrutinized the gap left by the fall of a great tree whose
gigantic trunk had bludgeoned weaker trees away in its crushing descent.
Seeing nothing unusual, they then peered around them. Tim suddenly
snapped up his rifle.
"Holler tree there--and a man in it! Hey! come out o' there!"
"Your eyes improve," Lourenço complimented. "But the man is Pedro."
Tim lowered the gun as Pedro, grinning, came out of his concealment.
"That is the tree of the Raposa," Lourenço went on. "The lightning
flashing in from above showed us the man. But now, senhores, I think we
must tramp the bush for some time before we find that Raposa again.
There is no trace of him here."
"Hm!" said Knowlton. Striding to the hollow tree, he peered about inside
it. The cavity was almost big enough to sling a hammock in, but it was
empty of any indication of habitation, human or otherwise. A temporary
refuge--that was all.
"No sign anywhere around here, eh?" queried McKay.
"We have found none. We shall look farther, but I have small hope. If
you senhores will make the camp this time we shall start at once and
stay out until dark. Build no fire until we return. And if you hear the
call of the mutum, pay no attention to it; we may use it to locate each
other if we separate, and also perhaps as a decoy. Any wild man, red or
white, hearing that call would seek the bird making it, for a fine fat
mutum is well worth killing. Keep quiet and be on guard."
"Right. Go ahead."
The bushmen turned at once and stole away. The others returned to the
canoes, transported the necessary duffle to the base of the hollow tree,
made camp with a few poles, and squatted against the trunk to smoke,
watch, and wait. Several times they heard mutum calls receding in the
distance. Then came silence.
The sun-thrown shadows in the gap crawled steadily eastward. Knowlton
tested the feed of his automatic, which, since its balkiness in the
fight with the Peruvians, he had kept carefully oiled and free from the
slightest speck of rust. Tim arose at intervals and paced up and down in
sentry go, eyes and ears alert--a useless activity, but one which
provided an outlet for his restless energy. McKay let his gaze rove over
the small area visible from their post, studying the contours of the
towering trunks, the prone giant whose fall had opened the hole in the
leafy roof, the parasitical vines twined about other trees, the thin,
outflung buttresses supporting the mighty columns--all familiar sights
to him, but the only things to occupy his vision. So limned on his brain
did the scene become that after a time he could close his eyes and see
it in every important detail.
It might have been two hours after Pedro and Lourenço had departed--the
shadows had grown much longer--when over McKay stole the feeling that he
was being watched. He glanced at his companions and found that neither
of them was looking at him. Knowlton, sitting with hands clasped around
updrawn knees, was dozing. Tim, though wide awake, was staring absently
at a fungus. The captain's eyes searched the short vistas all about,
spying nothing new. Still the feeling persisted. Then all at once his
roaming gaze stopped, became fixed on a point some forty feet away.
There rose a rough-barked red-brown tree, and from it, near the ground,
projected a blackish bole. McKay was very sure the protuberance had not
been there before. He had stared steadily at that tree more than once,
and its shape was quite clear in his mind. Was that bump an insensate
wood growth now revealed for the first time by the changing sun slant,
or--
For minutes he watched it. It did not move. Then Tim, restless again,
rose directly in McKay's line of sight, yawned silently, swung his gun
to his shoulder, and began another slow parade of his self-appointed
post. When he had stepped aside McKay looked again for the puzzling
bole.
It was gone.
With a bound the captain was up and dashing toward the tree, drawing his
pistol as he ran. But within three strides he went down. A tough vine,
unnoticed on the ground, looped snakily around one ankle and threw him
hard. His gun flew from his hand. As he fell a tiny whispering sound
flitted past, followed by a small blow somewhere behind him. Ensued a
gruff grunt from Tim and the swift clatter of a breech bolt.
Raging, McKay kicked his foot loose and heaved himself up. Empty handed,
he continued his rush for the tree. But when he reached it he found
nothing behind it. If anything had been there it now was gone, and the
vacant shadows beyond were as inscrutable as ever.
Feet padded behind him and Tim and Knowlton halted on either side. A
moment of silent searching, and Tim broke into reproach.
"Cap, don't never do that again! If ye take a tumble in my line o' fire,
for the love o' Mike stay down till I shoot! I come so near drillin' ye
when ye hopped up that I'm sweatin' blood right now."
In truth, the veteran was pale around the mouth and his broad face was
beaded with cold drops.
"I seen more 'n one time in France when I felt like shootin' my s'perior
officer, but I never come so near doin' it as jest now. I had finger to
trigger and had took up the slack, and a hair's weight more pull would
have spattered yer head all around. And besides givin' me heart failure
ye let that guy git away. We'll never find him--"
"You saw him?" McKay cut in.
"I seen somethin' beyond ye--couldn't make out what 'twas, but from the
way ye was goin' over the top I knowed it must be a man. And then when
the arrer come--"
"Arrow?"
"Sure. Missed ye when ye took that flop, and stuck in the tree over
yonder. What'd ye rush the guy for, anyways? Whyn't ye drill him from
where ye was?"
In the reaction from his sudden fright Tim was as wrathfully ready to
"bawl out" his captain as if he were some raw rookie. McKay, with a cool
smile, explained his abrupt action, meanwhile reconnoitering the dimness
for any further sign of the vanished assailant. None showed.
While Tim stood vigilant guard the other two stooped and moved around
the base of the tree, narrowly examining the ground. Beyond it they
paused at one spot, fingered the soil lightly, and lit a match or two.
"No ghost," said Knowlton. "Barefoot man. Didn't leave much trace, but
enough to show he was here. Let's look at that arrow."
Back to the hollow tree they went, retrieving McKay's pistol on the way.
About a yard above the earth a long shaft projected from the bark.
Knowlton reached for it, but McKay held him back and drew it out.
"M-hm! Thought so!" he muttered. "Poisoned."
"Oof! Nice, gentle sort of a cuss," rumbled Tim. "That smear on the
point--is that poison?"
"Poison. Quickest and deadliest kind of poison. Mixes instantly with
blood. Paralysis--convulsions--death. The least scratch and you're gone.
Wicked head on this thing, too: looks like a piece of serrated bone. See
all those little barbs along the edges? War arrow, all right."
"Meanin' that we'll be jumped pretty soon by more Injuns. If that guy's
on the warpath he ain't alone."
"Wouldn't be a bad idea to take cover," nodded McKay. Turning the
five-foot shaft downward, he plunged its head into the soft ground and
left it sticking there, harmless.
"Tim, go down and guard the canoes. Merry, lie in between these roots
and keep watch off that way. I'll go over to that tree where the spy
hid."
For another hour the camp was silent. Each in his covert, finger on
trigger, the trio watched with ceaseless vigilance, expecting each
instant to detect dusky forms crawling up from tree to tree. Yet nothing
of the sort came. Nor did any hostile sound reach them. Somewhere
parrots squawked, somewhere else the puppylike yapping of toucans
disturbed the solitude; nothing else.
The wan light faded. The sun crawled up the trees, leaving all the
ground in shadow. Then, not far off, sounded the soft whistle of the
mutum. Suspicious, the watchers held their places until, with another
whistle, Pedro came into view, followed by Lourenço.
McKay arose, met them, and briefly explained the situation. They nodded,
but seemed undisturbed.
"We can start a fire now, Capitao," Lourenço said. "Night comes and we
are hungry. There will be no danger before another dawn."
With which he leaned his rifle against a tree and started immediate
preparations for a meal. Pedro continued on to the canoes, made sure
they were drawn up high enough to remain in place in case of any sudden
rain, and returned with Tim. Around them now resounded the swiftly
rising roar of the nightly outbreak of animal life. The sun vanished. At
once blackness whelmed all except the little fire.
"See anything while you were out?" asked McKay.
"We found no trace of the Raposa," Lourenço evaded.
"What do you plan to do now?"
"Eat--smoke--talk--sleep."
McKay eyed the bushman keenly, feeling that he was holding something
back. But, feeling also that this pair knew what they were about, he
bided his time. When all had eaten and tobacco smoke was blending with
that of the burning wood, Lourenço drew the arrow from the ground and
studied it. Then he passed it to Pedro, who, after a critical
examination, held it in the blaze until the deadly head was burned away.
"A big-game arrow of the cannibal Mayorunas," said Lourenço. "The point,
with its sawtooth barbs, is made from the tail bone of the araya, the
flat devilfish of the swamp lakes. That fish, as you perhaps know, has a
whiplike tail armed with that bone; and if he strikes the bone into your
flesh it breaks off and stays in the wound, and you are likely to die."
"But in that case death comes from gangrene," McKay remarked. "This
point has been dipped in wurali poison."
"You have seen such arrows before, Capitao?"
"Seen the poison before, yes. Over in British Guiana. The Macusi Indians
make it from the wurali vine, some bitter root or other, a couple of
bulbous plants, two kinds of ants--one big and black with a venomous
bite, the other small and red--a lot of pepper, and the pounded fangs of
labarri and couanacouchi snakes. They boil all this stuff down to a
thick syrup, and that's the poison. The man who makes it is sick for
days afterward."
"Our cannibals make that poison in much the same way. Yet Guiana is many
hundreds of miles from here, and our Indians know nothing of those
Macusi people. Queer, is it not, that the same plan should be used by
savages thousands of miles apart?"
"Rather odd. Must have started from some common source hundreds of years
ago and spread around. Queerest thing is, though, that a poison so
deadly doesn't spoil meat for eating."
"Huh?" exclaimed Tim. "Mean to say them cannibals can kill us by
scratchin' us with a poison arrer and then stummick us afterwards?"
"Exactly. You'd taste just as sweet as ever, Tim--maybe more so. Cheer
up! They say it doesn't hurt much to die that way; you're paralyzed so
quick you just sort of fade out."
Tim shook his head, his abhorrence of poison strong as ever. Knowlton
spoke.
"I've heard that this wurali poison is much overrated, that it will kill
only birds and monkeys, not men."
"_Por Deus!_ Whoever said that was a fool trying to appear wise!" Pedro
snorted. "We have seen the poison death, and we know."
McKay also shook his head.
"Experiments have been made with the wurali of the Macusis," he stated.
"It was tried on a hog, a sloth--and a sloth is mighty hard to
kill--also on mules, and on a full-grown ox weighing almost half a ton.
It killed every one of them."
A momentary silence followed. Tim gazed sourly at the arrow, now
harmless but still sinister.
"Urrrgh!" he growled. "Cap, ye had a narrer squeak--come near gittin' it
from in front, and behind, too. Wisht I could have drilled that guy."
The bushmen grinned. And Lourenço's next speech was amazing.
"Be thankful you did not. That bullet might have killed us all."
After enjoying their puzzled expressions a moment he continued.
"We are nearer to a Mayoruna _maloca_ than I thought. Not the one I
intended to seek, but a smaller one. It is about three days' journey
from here, and to reach it we must go through the bush. The man who left
this arrow here to-day is from that _maloca_.
"A week ago his brother went hunting, and he has not returned. So this
young savage and three of his comrades now are searching the bush for
some sign of him. To-day they separated, each going in a different
direction, agreeing to meet again to-night at a place less than half a
day's journey from here. This man circled around and worked along this
creek, knowing his brother would hardly go beyond the water. He spied
our canoes, then sought the men who had come in them and found you.
"He watched you for some time, and if you had not rushed at him he would
have slipped away without attacking you, for he was alone and he saw
your guns. But when you, Capitao, suddenly leaped at him he darted away,
then stopped long enough to send an arrow at you. After that he dodged
out of sight and ran to the camp of his three friends. He is there now,
telling about you."
"Great guns! You chaps are wizards!" cried Knowlton. "How do you know
all this?"
"Because we met him while on our way back here. He was running hard, and
we heard him, so we blocked him. After we convinced him that we were
friendly we talked for some time--I can speak their tongue--and he told
us about you. He was sure you were enemies to him and his people, and
believed also you had killed his missing brother, and he was going first
to rejoin his companions and then hasten to the _maloca_ to bring all
their fighters against you. It was well that we met him in time. It was
well, too, that you did not shoot him--or even shoot at him. His
companions would have learned of it, and then--death for us all."
"And now what?"
"Now, comrades, we all go to the _maloca_ of that man. We meet him and
the other three to-morrow at the place where we talked to him to-day. I
told him we were going to visit that other chief whom I knew, and,
though he was at first suspicious of a trap, he finally agreed to lead
us to his own chief. So in the morning we march. Now let us sleep."
Knowlton and McKay glanced at each other and nodded.
"Luck's with us so far," said the captain.
"Right. We just march right into Jungle Town with bodyguard and
everything. Pretty soft! Wonder if they'll turn out the tomtom band to
drum us in."
Tim said nothing. He squinted again at the headless arrow, then
inspected the breech bolt of his rifle.