A DUEL WITH DEATH
Rain came and went.
The first night's camp of the strangely assorted company was a wet one,
for well on in the day the skies poured down the watery weight which had
been troubling them once morning. Yet even in such miserable weather the
four tribesmen of the Mayorunas declined to sleep in the same camp with
the whites. They accepted the food tendered them, but when it was eaten
they withdrew to some covert of their own to spend the night. Whereby
the whites knew that, though their guides now could no longer suspect
them of killing the lone hunter, they still were not accepted as
friends.
"Did ye say them guys had a trick of jabbin' men in their hammicks at
night, Renzo?" was Tim's significant question after the Indians had
departed.
"Have no fear," Lourenço assured him. "They have promised to take us
safely to their chief."
"How much is the word of a cannibal worth?" asked Knowlton.
"Worth everything, so long as you do nothing to make them forget it,
senhor. Being uncivilized, they are not liars."
The lieutenant eyed him sharply, half minded to regard the answer as
insolent. But there was no insolence in the Brazilian's straightforward
gaze, and McKay laughed approvingly.
"Well spoken!" was the captain's comment.
"Among those people there are but two great crimes," Lourenço added.
"They are, to speak falsely or to be a coward."
"Wherein a goodly portion of the so-called civilized world would fail to
measure up to the standards of these cannibals," McKay said. "By the
way, have you asked them about the Raposa?"
"No, Capitao. It is as well not to put into their heads the idea that we
are hunting anyone here. I shall say nothing of that matter until we
reach the chief who knows me."
"Good idea."
With that the talk ended and all sought their hammocks, dog tired from
the day's travel. No watch was kept, for, as Pedro quaintly phrased it,
"We now are in the hands of God and the cannibals." Nor was any watch
needed.
Daybreak brought sunlight. While the breakfast coffee was being boiled
the four wild men appeared silently and simultaneously, one bringing a
red howling monkey and another a large green parrot as their
contributions to the morning meal. Neither bird nor animal showed any
wound except a slightly discolored spot surrounding a skin puncture no
larger than if made by a woman's hatpin--the marks left by poisoned
darts from the ten-foot blowguns. When the meat was cooked they offered
portions to the whites, of whom Tim alone refused.
"I'd as quick eat a rat killed with Paris green," he growled. "No
poisoned meat gits into my stummick if I know it."
"Bosh!" scoffed McKay. "It's perfectly wholesome--though it's tough as a
rubber boot."
"And I might tell you, senhores, that among these people it is an insult
to refuse any food offered you," added Lourenço. "I advise you to forget
about the poison hereafter and eat what is put before you, even if it
stinks."
His advice was emphasized by the evident displeasure of the tribesmen,
who, though saying nothing, looked rather grimly at the man who had
despised their provisions. But Lourenço then smoothed over the matter by
telling them that the red-haired man was sick at the stomach that
morning--which, at that particular moment, was not far from the truth.
Soon the triglot column was once more on its way across the hill
country, which hourly grew higher and rougher--a constant succession of
ridges and ravines. Lourenço, pointing out the absence of water marks on
the trees of the uplands, said that now the land of the great annual
floods had been left behind; for even the sixty-foot rise of waters in
the rainy season could not reach to these hilltops. With the entry into
this terra firma the travelers had also found the sun again, the dank
mist of yesterday having vanished. Nevertheless, the going was fully as
hard as on the previous day, because of the density of the bush and of
the labor of crossing the narrow but deep streams flowing at the bottom
of nearly every clove. Few words were exchanged, every man needing his
breath for the work of walking.
As before, the keen machetes of the Brazilians opened a direct route
through all opposing undergrowth. When a brief halt was called at noon
the Mayorunas, who seemed to know exactly where they were despite the
fact that they had never before followed this straight course, informed
Lourenço that much circuitous traveling had already been saved, and that
by tramping hard until sundown they might succeed in reaching the tribal
_maloca_ that night. But McKay vetoed the idea of a forced march.
"This gait is fast enough and hard enough," he declared. "No sense in
exhausting ourselves to save a few hours' time. Also, we don't want to
go staggering into the Mayoruna village with our tongues hanging out and
our knees wabbling. First impressions are lasting with such people, and
they might get an idea we were weaklings."
To which all except the savages, who did not understand the language of
the white man, assented approvingly.
Yet it was the Mayorunas themselves who delayed arrival at their
_maloca_--the Mayorunas and a monkey. When the sinking sun was still two
hours high, and while the leader was forcing the pace as if determined
to reach home that night whether the rest liked it or not, the monkey
upset any such plan.
He was a big gray monkey, and he was high up in the branches of a tall
matamata tree, where he deemed himself safe from the many creatures
laboring along the ground below. Wherefore he chattered impudently down
at them and, as the tall Indian guide halted, showed his teeth
derisively. The savage grunted. The man behind him also grunted and
lifted his blowgun. But the leader growled at him and the blowgun sank.
With a swift sweep of the hand the guide drew from his quiver one of
those long, poisoned arrows and fitted it to the bow cord, which he had
laid on the ground. With two toes of each foot he held the cord firmly
on the soil. His right hand lightly grasped the arrow and aimed it up at
the insolent primate. His left drew the bow up, up, into an arc.
_Twang!_ the cord thrummed as his lifted toes released it. The arrow
whirred aloft. Then a snarl of chagrin from the marksman blended with
the grunts of his mates. The arrow had failed to reach the quarry.
It had missed, however, by a mere hand's breadth--missed only because it
struck the limb directly under the monkey, where it hung by the tip from
the bark. Muttering something which may have been a Mayoruna
malediction, the savage moved aside a step or two, drew another arrow,
and set it to the cord with more care than before. But while he did this
the monkey was not idle.
Chattering in rage, the animal leaned down, worked the arrow loose from
the bark, and threw it aside. The deadly shaft turned in air, then
plunged aimlessly earthward. At that instant all below were watching the
guide, who in turn was looking at his toes and placing the new arrow in
position. Unseen, the other missile hurtled down--and ripped across the
back of the marksman's left hand.
For an instant the tall cannibal stood as if petrified, staring at his
cut hand and the shaft now sticking upright in the ground beside him.
Then, in simple symbolism, he reversed the new arrow and stabbed it also
into the dirt. Dropping his bow, he lay down on his back.
"Yuara will draw bow no more. Yuara goes to join the spirits of the
dead," he said, calmly.
Mechanically Lourenço translated the words. McKay sprang forward.
"No!" he disputed. "Not without a try for life, anyhow! Merry, sling a
tourniquet! Quick!"
Knowlton jumped to the side of Yuara, tied a handkerchief above the
elbow, twisted it tight. McKay whipped from a pocket a keen-bladed
knife. In one swift ruthless slash he laid open the arm from elbow to
knuckles.
"Keep that tourniquet tight!" he snapped. "If the blood once gets past
it he's gone. Tim, get out the salt bag! Lourenço, tell this fellow to
breathe deep and keep it up!"
While Tim burrowed into his pack for the salt, Lourenço spoke, as much
for the benefit of the other tribesmen as for that of Yuara; for the
three Mayorunas stood in ominous silence, watching the outrush of blood
caused by the knife of the white man.
"The white man of the black beard, who is very wise, will save Yuara to
draw many a good bow if Yuara will do as he says. Let Yuara breathe
deeply, that the spirit of life remain in him to fight against the demon
of death. Even now the poison rushes out of the arm of Yuara."
"Yuara cannot live," was Yuara's cool reply. "Where once the poison has
entered, there follows death."
"Is Yuara then a coward, that he will die without a fight? Then he is no
Mayoruna, for no Mayoruna is a coward. Let Yuara die if he will. His
comrades shall carry to their _maloca_ the tale that, although the white
man would have saved him, he died like an old woman, because he had not
the will to live!"
Fire shot into the eyes of the prostrate man. He ground his teeth and
struggled to rise and throttle the insulting Brazilian.
"No, not that way," Lourenço went on at once. "Yuara can fight the death
demon only by drawing into himself the air in which is the spirit of
life. The wise white man has stopped the poison at the place where the
cloth is tied, and he knows the air spirits will help Yuara if Yuara
will breathe deep and long. If he will not, then the white man's
medicine cannot save him. Yuara's life or death is in his own hands."
In his heart Lourenço had faint hope that the injured man would live.
But he knew the rest of the cannibal tribe must soon hear the tale of
this incident from the three now present, and he was preparing an
excellent excuse for the failure of McKay to save him. Whether Yuara
lived or not, the Mayorunas now would know that the whites had done
their utmost for him, and that very fact might make a vast difference.
Yuara, though his eyes still flamed, sank back under McKay's restraining
weight and obeyed orders. After the first couple of breaths he settled
into his task and his chest rose and fell rhythmically.
"Here's yer salt, Cap. What'll I do with it?"
"You come here and hold this tourniquet. Don't let it slip! Merry, fill
this chap's mouth with salt. Lourenço, tell him to hold it as long as
possible, then swallow it. Now, Merry, fix up a good strong salt
poultice. The rest of you make camp. We've got a stiff fight on our
hands, and we can't go farther until we've either won or lost."
The Brazilians glanced at the sun shadows and remained where they were.
According to their experience, Yuara should be dead within ten minutes
at most. Time enough to make camp when they knew how this venture would
result. The Mayorunas also stood fast and watched for the shadow of
death to blanch the face of their stricken mate.
But the minutes dragged past and Yuara's eyes did not grow dim. His
first resignation over and his fighting blood aroused, he was battling
grimly against fate. At times his deep respirations were broken by
sudden gasps, and spasmodic quivers shook his whole body. But he
breathed on, paying no heed to the burning pain of his ripped and salted
arm.
"By cripes! he's puttin' up a man's scrap!" blurted Tim. "Stay with it,
old feller. Ye'll win out yet!"
And as more minutes passed and the wounded man still breathed, a murmur
of wonderment passed among the cannibals and the men of Nunes. Yuara
should be dead, yet he was not even paralyzed. Such a thing had never
before been known in this bush.
Lourenço touched Pedro's arm.
"Find a spot where we can make camp," he said. "I must stay here to
speak to the wild men if words are needed."
Reluctantly Pedro went away. Soon he was back with news of a suitable
place. He found all bending closer over Yuara, whose breathing had
become stertorous and whose eyes seemed fixed.
"Going!" was the bushman's thought. But the others would not have it so.
"How 'bout a shot o' booze to jolt his heart, Cap?" suggested Tim, whose
whole soul was in the fight.
McKay nodded. Knowlton quickly produced brandy and poured a stiff dose
down Yuara's throat. It took hold at once, and light came back into the
Indian's eyes.
"Got a good chance yet," McKay asserted. "Don't loosen that tourniquet.
Let the arm mortify, if necessary, but hold that blood away from the
heart at all costs. I'll chop his arm off at the shoulder before I'll
give in."
His hard-set face showed he meant it.
Lourenço spoke to the Mayorunas, urging that camp be made at once. He
and Pedro strode away, and all three of the Indians followed.
"Really think he'll pull through, Rod?" Knowlton asked, then. "If he
does you're a miracle worker."
"It's an experiment," McKay confessed, watching Yuara with unswerving
intentness. "Never saw this done, but it's worth a try--and I honestly
believe it will work. I saved an Indian over in Guiana once by cutting
off his arm as soon as he was hit, but I want to keep this fellow's arm
for him if possible. Feed him some more salt."
Time passed unheeded. Sounds of labor not far off told that camp was
being built. Presently the absent five returned, two of the Mayorunas
carrying a crude but strong litter constructed from saplings and
giant-fern leaves. McKay rose stiffly on cramped legs.
"All right. You can move him," he consented.
Carefully Yuara was lifted to the litter and transported to the new
camp. There the Americans found not only the open shed, or _tambo_,
usually constructed by the Brazilians, but also a somewhat similar
shelter erected by the Indians. In the latter stood two stout crotched
stakes, firmly braced--the handiwork of Pedro and Lourenço. And to
these, with tough bush rope, the Indians fastened the litter of Yuara,
thus forming a rude but effective hammock.
While McKay and Knowlton continued their ministrations to the stricken
man the rest of the camp work was completed, the Mayorunas making
hanging beds for themselves from withes, leaves, and bush cord, and the
Brazilians slinging the hammocks of their own party and opening packs.
Night fell and the wounded man lived on. Supper was eaten, pipes smoked,
the regular activities of the early hours of darkness gone through--and
Yuara lived on. His deep breathing had become automatic, and his eyes
stared straight up in concentration on his battle with the death demon.
At length he was seized with violent nausea which convulsed him for a
time. But when the spasms passed he lay back more easily, and a faint
smile flitted over his face as he looked at the white men.
"Been expecting that," said McKay. "Might loosen that ligature now--just
a few seconds.... Tighten it! All right." Alter watching the sick man a
little longer he added: "Now I'm going to eat and smoke. Feel like
taking a drink, too, but guess I won't. The Indian will pull through
now, I think."
When he had returned to the Indian hut with pipe aglow, Knowlton asked
him, "Now tell us how you doped out this cure."
"Combination of various things. Salt is a partial antidote to venom in
the blood, and I got it into him in three ways--by mouth absorption, by
the stomach, and by the salt poultice, which drew out some of the poison
from the forearm and helped neutralize what remained. Ripping his arm of
course let out a lot of bad blood. Ligature above the elbow stopped most
of the rest--though some sneaked past that point, I'm pretty sure.
"Big thing, though, was the deep breathing. Remember I told you about
the experiments that killed mules and an ox? Another experiment was
this--opening the windpipe of a poisoned mule after the heart stopped,
inserting a pair of bellows, and starting artificial respiration. After
four hours of this the mule came to life and stayed alive--though he was
a wreck for a year afterward.
"I just put all these together, made the Indian do his own
breathing--and here he is. I'm going to sit up awhile longer and watch
him, but the critical period is over. You chaps can turn in."
But none turned in until midnight, when no doubt remained that
Lourenço's prophecy would come true--that Yuara would live to draw bow
again. Then, when the slashed arm had been thoroughly cleansed and
bound, Lourenço spoke once more to the savages.
"The medicine of the wise white man and the air spirits have saved Yuara
from the death demon. Yuara has fought as a man of his tribe should
fight, and so has lived when he would have died. To-morrow Yuara shall
once more see his people, the first man of the Mayorunas to come back
from the death of poison. And he and his comrades shall tell of the
white man's wisdom, without which he now would lie cold on the ground."
"So shall it be," Yuara himself faintly answered. "Yuara, son of Rana,
second chief of the men of Suba, will not forget."
"_Por Deus!_" exclaimed Lourenço. "Comrades, this man is no common
hunter, but son of a subchief. Capitao, you have done good work to-day."