THE WAY OF THE JUNGLE
Dawn came, dismal, damp, and chill. Moisture dripped drearily from the
upper reaches, and under the dense canopy of leaves and limbs the gloom
and the fog together made a murk wherein the early-rising bushmen were
scarcely visible to the North Americans ten feet away. Yet day had come,
or was coming; the noise of the animal world left little doubt of that.
By the light of a sullen smoky fire and oil-smeared torches Pedro and
Lourenço made up their packs, cording them roughly with bark-cloth
strips brought from headquarters. The Americans, after eating a more
solid meal than the Brazilians seemed to require, also rolled their
blankets, hammocks, nets, and other paraphernalia; strapped the outfits
into the army pack harnesses which they had transported for thousands of
miles and never yet used; crammed their web belts with cartridges; slung
their sheathed machetes down their left thighs; looked to their guns;
and announced themselves ready to go.
While the northerners made these final preparations their guides slipped
away for a time. Pedro, on his return, announced that the canoes had
been concealed. Lourenço, bringing back the freshly filled canteens of
the ex-army men, delivered with them the marching orders of the day.
"If you thirst, comrades, drink only from your canteens. If the canteens
fail, never fill them from flowing water unless the Indians also drink
from the stream. There are always small pools to be found, and, though
their water may be warm and stale, it is not likely to be poisoned, as
the streams may be.
"To-day, and every day after we meet the cannibals, make no suspicious
moves. Do not speak harshly. Do not laugh or sneer at them. They are
unreasoning and easily insulted, and lifelong foes when angered. Let me
do the talking.
"Do not hold a gun in a threatening manner or draw pistols unless you
must fight. Then kill.
"Above all, pay no attention to their women.
"Now we go. I lead."
He turned and strode away into the fog as easily and surely as if
cat-eyed and cat-footed. Pedro swung nonchalantly after him. The others
followed in order, hitching at their backstraps.
The ghostly haze about them now was paler, but through the interstices
overhead came no glint of sunshine, nor even the glow of a clear dawn.
The whole sky evidently was overcast, and around the marching men the
gloom still lay thick. Yet Lourenço's eyes seemed to bore through the
shades and the dark shroud blurring the trunks, for his steady gait did
not falter. The little file hung close together, for all knew that any
man straggling would be instantly lost.
Worming around gigantic columns, crawling over rotting trunks long laid
low, changing direction abruptly when blocked by some great butt too
high to be scaled, sinking ankle-deep in clinging mud, the venturesome
band wound along through the wilderness. Repeated glances at his compass
showed McKay that the general trend of the march was southeast; but the
impassable obstacles encountered at frequent intervals necessitated not
only detours, but sometimes actual back-tracking.
"Walk four miles to advance one," was his thought. And for some time it
seemed that such was the case. But then the ground changed, the light
improved, the trees thinned, and the undergrowth became more dense--and,
paradoxically, the rate of progress improved.
This was because the smaller growth gave the two leaders a chance to cut
their way straight onward instead of dodging about; and cut they did.
Their machetes swung with untiring energy, opening a path through what
seemed an impenetrable tangle. Now every yard of movement was a yard
gained. But the ground was rising and the struggle up some of the sharp
slopes winded more than one man.
Then the slope dipped the other way, and they slipped down into a ravine
where water gleamed darkly. Here a halt was called while the leaders
sought for a fallen tree. Tim squatted and mopped his face for the
hundredth time.
"Gosh! This is what I call travelin'!" he panted. "Flounderin' round in
mud soup, bit to death by skeeters and them what-ye-call-'em
flies--piums--sweatin' yerself bone dry and totin' forty thousand
pounds, on yer back, not to mention hardware slung all over ye--this
ain't no place for a minister's son or a fat guy, I'll tell the world.
And this is only the start!"
A call from Pedro forestalled any answer. The trio struggled along to
the spot where the guides waited at the butt of a slanting tree trunk
spanning the gulf. As they reached it Pedro walked carefully up the
trunk, carrying a long slender sapling, which he lowered and fixed in
the bottom of the stream. Then, steadying himself with the upper end of
this pole, he continued his journey to the other side, where he flipped
the sapling back to Lourenço. One by one the others crossed, slipping,
almost losing balance, but managing to evade a fall. Tim, walking the
precarious bridge and looking down, saw that the surface of the water
was dotted with the heads of venomous snakes.
"Are you following your trail of yesterday?" demanded McKay.
"No, Capitao. Yesterday we circled. To-day we go as nearly straight as
possible."
"And you can find the appointed place by this new route?" The captain's
tone was dubious.
"Certainly. Else I should go the other way. Come."
Up another bank they toiled, and on through rugged country which seemed
momentarily to become higher and harder to traverse. In the minds of the
Americans grew suspicion that, for the first time, the Brazilians were
bluffing; it seemed impossible for any man to keep his sense of
direction in such a maze. But they said no word and followed on.
At length the leader paused and sent the long call of the mutum floating
through the trees. No answer came. After a moment the line moved on,
each man peering ahead with sharper gaze, each holding a little tighter.
To the Americans, at least, the thought of possible ambush loomed large.
Four man-eating savages, hidden in this labyrinthine tangle and armed
with arrows whose slightest scratch meant death, could strike down every
man of this expedition without even a wound in return; for of what avail
were high-power guns, automatic pistols, and machetes against invisible
enemies? Yet there was assurance in Lourenço's confident air, and
reassurance in the thought that these tribemen would be unlikely to
assail a band avowedly on its way to visit their chief.
Besides--Knowlton smiled grimly--even if the Mayorunas hungered for
human flesh it would be more economical of labor to let the meat travel
to the slaughterhouse on its own legs than to kill it here and carry it
home.
Again the mutum whistle drifted away. Again no answer came. For a short
distance farther the file continued its march. Then, in a small opening
where the uptorn roots of a tree rose like a wall at one side, it
halted.
"The place of meeting," Pedro said. All peered around. None saw anything
but the upstanding roots, the forest jumble, the misty serpentine
lianas. None heard any sound but their own hoarse breathing, the solemn
drip of water, the insect hum, and the occasional melancholy notes of
birds. The place seemed bare of life. Yet upon McKay came again that
feeling of being watched.
Slowly, deeply, Lourenço spoke. The words meant nothing to his mates.
They were like no words they knew. His eyes roved about as he talked,
and it was evident that he saw no more than did the silent men behind
him. But they guessed that he said he and they were there as agreed,
with peace in their hearts, and that he was telling the men of the
wilderness to come forward without fear. And they guessed rightly.
As quietly as a phantom of the mist a man took shape at the edge of the
tree roots. Tall, straight, slender, symmetrically proportioned, with
unblemished skin of light-bronze hue, straight black hair, and deep dark
eyes, he was a splendid type of savage. Face and body were adorned with
glossy paint--scarlet and black rings around the eyes, two red stripes
from temple to chin, wavy lines on arms and chest. He held a bow longer
than himself, with a five-foot arrow fitted loosely to the string and
pointed downward, but ready for instant use. Diagonally across his body
ran a cord supporting a quiver, from which the feathered shafts of
several arrows projected above his left shoulder. Around his waist
looped another cord from which dangled a small loin mat. Otherwise he
was totally nude--a bronze statue of freedom.
Lourenço spoke again in the same quiet tone. The savage stepped warily
forward. At the same moment three other naked men appeared with equal
stealth from tree trunks which had seemed barren of all life. Like the
first, each of these held an arrow ready, but pointing downward; and
each moved with the slow, velvety step of a hunting jaguar. Their eyes
searched those of these strange men of another world who, wearing
useless clothing, carrying heavy weapons of steel, burdening themselves
with queer weights on their backs, now invaded the wilderness which they
and their fathers had roamed untrammeled for centuries. The invaders in
turn studied the faces of the Mayorunas, of whom so many gruesome tales
were told. For long silent minutes primitive and civilized man probed
each other for signs of treachery--and found none.
Tim, forgetting the orders of the day, spoke out abruptly. At the gruff
jar of his voice the wild men started and raised their weapons.
"Say, are those guys cannibals? I was lookin' to see some ugly mutts
with underslung jaws and mops o' frizzy hair, like them Feejee Islanders
ye see pitchers of. Barrin' the paint, I've seen worse-lookin' fellers
than these back home."
With which he gave the savages a wide, unmistakably approving grin.
"Shut up!" muttered McKay.
Lourenço, unruffled, made instant capital of Tim's remarks.
"My comrade of the red hair," he said in the Indian tongue, "has never
before seen the mighty warriors of the Mayorunas, and is astonished to
find them such handsome men. He says his own countrymen are not so good
to look upon."
Slowly the menacing arrows sank. As the savages studied Tim's wholesome
grin and absorbed the broad flattery of Lourenço a slight smile passed
over their faces. They stood more at ease. The whites sensed at once
that, for a moment, at least, a friendly footing had been established,
and relaxed from their own tension.
Once more Lourenço spoke, motioning toward the farther distances. The
Indian who had first appeared now replied briefly. Two of the others
stepped back to their trees and lifted long, hollow tubes.
"What's them?" demanded Tim.
"Blowguns," Pedro answered. "They use them for small or thin-skinned
game. See, the two blowgun men carry also short darts in their quivers,
and small pouches of poison."
"Uh-huh. They like their poison a dang sight better 'n I do. Say, are
them guys goin' to march behind us? I don't want no poison needles
slipped into my back, accidental or other ways."
Two of the savages were walking toward the rear of the line. Knowlton,
exasperated, snapped out:
"They'll walk where they like, and you'll do well to give us more
marching and less mouth. You nearly spilled the beans just now, and if
Lourenço hadn't said something that pleased these fellows we all might
be in the soup this minute. Pipe down!"
"Aw, Looey, I only said these guys were good-lookin'. Ain't no fight in
words like that."
"You heard the orders this morning. Let Lourenço do the talking. That
goes! We're skating on thin ice--so thin that if it breaks we drop plump
into hell. Less noise!"
"Right, sir," was the sulky answer. "I'm deaf and dumb."
"March," added McKay. The head of the column already was on the move,
led by the tallest Indian and a blowgun man, behind whom walked the two
Brazilians. The whole line took up the step in turn and passed on into
the unknown.
Again McKay consulted his compass at intervals, finding that now the
route led more to the south, though there still was an easterly trend.
After a time, however, the telltale needle informed him that they were
proceeding almost due east, and glances at the surroundings showed that
on their right was a densely matted mass of undergrowth. Not long
afterward another interwoven brush wall blocked the way, and this time
the leader veered to the west. Not until an opening appeared did he
resume his southward course. It dawned on McKay that the savages, having
no bush knives, were accustomed to follow the line of least resistance.
This obviously increased the distance traveled.
The men of Coronel Nunes, too, perceived this. A halt was called, during
which Lourenço talked with the guide, tapped his machete, and evidently
protested against needless detours. The leader, with a few words,
pointed south. Lourenço nodded and replied. The march was resumed, and
when the next impenetrable tangle was encountered the Indians in the van
stepped aside, the machetes of the Brazilians flashed out, and a way was
cut straight through. From that time on the long knives came into
frequent play and a direct course was maintained.
Suddenly, with a grunt of warning, the tall tribesman stopped. The plan
of chopping through instead of going around had brought the Indians into
a part of the forest which they had not heretofore traversed in their
search for the missing hunter. Now they stood in a small trough between
the knolls, under good-sized trees around which grew little brush. The
ground was soft, almost watery. In the damp air, faint but unmistakable,
hung the odor of death.
The savages at the rear came forward at once. All four of them spread
out and, sniffing the air, advanced up the trough. A cry broke from one
of them. The others, and the white men, too, hastened to the spot whence
the call had come.
Scattered about in the soft muck were bones, two skulls, bits of tawny
fur, a long bow, several big-game arrows. Around them the ground was
marked with many tracks. Most of the imprints were of the vultures which
had stripped the bones, but there were others--those of a barefoot man,
of a great cat, and of a couple of wild hogs. The peccary tracks went
straight on, but those of the man and the cat showed that a fierce
struggle had occurred. And one of the two grinning skulls was that of a
jaguar.
The story was plain. The hunter, following fast on the trail of the
hogs, had suddenly met the jaguar. He had shot it; one arrow, blood
stained for more than a foot above the barb, proved that. But in the few
seconds of life left to it the animal had sprung and fatally torn the
man. Then, as usual, had dropped the black scavengers of the sky to rend
them both.
Silently the men of the bush and the men of the north looked down at the
brief history written in the mud--a story only a week old, yet ancient
as human life itself--primitive man and ferocious brute destroying each
other as in the prehistoric days when saber-toothed tiger and troglodyte
hunted and slew for the right to live. And as it had been then, so it
was now. The living read the tale of tragedy and passed on, leaving the
bones behind them. Only, before they went, the Mayorunas threw the
remnants of the jaguar aside and piled the bones of their dead comrade
together in one place. Then, bearing with them his bow and arrows, they
resumed their way without a word.