FRUIT OF THE TRAP
Heavy hypodermic doses of quinine, aided by Tim's rugged constitution
and the fact that this was his first attack of the ravaging sickness of
the swamp lands, pulled him back to safety within the next two days. To
safety, but not to strength. Despite his stout-hearted assertions that
he was ready to hit the trail and "walk the legs off the whole danged
outfit," he was obviously in no condition to stand up under the grueling
pack work that lay ahead. Wherefore, McKay, after consultation with the
others of the party, and, through Lourenço, with Monitaya, gave him
inflexible orders.
"You'll stay here. Stick in your hammock until you're in fighting trim.
Then watch yourself. Don't pull any bonehead plays that'll get these
people down on you. Take quinine daily according to Knowlton's
directions--he's written them on the box. If we're not back in a
fortnight Monitaya will send men to find out why. If they find that
we're--not coming back--you will be guided to the river, where you can
get down to the Nunes place."
"But, Cap--"
"No argument!"
"But listen here, for the love o' Mike! I ain't no old woman! I can
stand the gaff! I'm goin' with the gang!"
"You hear the orders!" McKay snapped, with assumed severity. "Think we
want to be bothered with having you go sick again? You're out of shape
and we've no room for lame ducks. You'll stay here!"
Tim tried another tack.
"Aw, but listen! Ye ain't goin' to desert a comrade amongst a lot o' man
eaters--right in the place where I got sick, too. Soon's I git away from
here I'll be all right--"
"That stuff's no good," the captain contradicted, with a tight smile.
"You didn't get fever here. It's been in your system for days. You got
it back on the river. These people don't have it, or any other kind of
sickness. I've looked around and I know. As for the man eaters, they're
mighty decent folks toward friends. We're friends. You'll be under the
personal protection of Monitaya, and his word is good as gold. It's all
arranged, and you're safer here than you would be in New York."
In his heart the stubborn veteran knew McKay was right, but, like any
other good soldier ordered to remain out of action, he grumbled and
growled regardless. To which the ex-officers paid about as much
attention as officers usually do. They went ahead with their own
preparations.
"Be of good heart, Senhor Tim," Pedro comforted, mischievously. "You
will not lack for company. The chief has appointed two girls to wait
upon you at all times."
"Huh? Them two tall ones that's been hangin' round and fetchin' things?
Are they mine?"
"Yes. They are quite handsome in their way, and strong enough to help
you about if your legs remain weak. In that case you will probably be
allowed to put your arms around them for support. I almost wish I could
get fever, too."
Tim's voice remained a growl, but his face did not look so doleful as
before.
"Grrrumph! I always seem to draw big females, and I don't like 'em.
Gimme somethin' cute like them li'l' frog dolls in Paree--sort o'
pee-teet and chick. Still, a feller's got to do the best he can. Mebbe
I'll live till you guys git back."
With which he availed himself of the prerogative of a sick man and
grinned openly at the two comely young women who stood near at hand,
awaiting any demand for services. They were not at all backward in
reciprocating, and, despite the tribal paint and their labial ornaments,
the smiles softening their faces made them not half bad to look upon.
"'O death, where is thy sting?'" laughed Knowlton. "Be careful not to
strain your heart while we're away, Tim."
"Don't worry. It's a tough old heart--been kicked round so much it's
growed a shell like a turtle. Besides, I seen wild women before I ever
come to the jungle."
Notwithstanding his apparent resignation, however, Tim erupted once more
when his comrades shouldered their packs, picked up their guns, and
spoke their thanks and good-by to Monitaya. He arose on shaky legs and
desperately offered to prove his fitness by a barehanded six-round bout
with his commanding officer. When McKay, with sympathetic eyes but gruff
tones, peremptorily squelched him he insisted on at least going to the
door to watch his comrades start the journey from which they might or
might not return. Nor did he take advantage of his chance to hug the
girls on the way.
With one arm slung over the shoulders of a wiry young warrior who
grinned proudly at the honor of being selected to help a guest of the
great chief, he followed the departing column out into the sunshine,
where the entire tribe was assembled. And when the stalwart band had
filed into the shadows of the trees and vanished he stood for a time
unseeing and gulping at something in his throat.
Straight away along a vague path beginning at the rear of the _malocas_
marched the twenty-four, the two northerners bending under the weight of
their packs, the pair of Brazilians sweeping the jungle with practiced
eyes, the score of Mayorunas striding velvet footed, resplendent in
brilliant new paint and headdresses, armed with the most powerful
weapons of their tribe, and loftily conscious of the fact that they were
chosen as Monitaya's best. Savage and civilized, each man was fit,
alert, formidable. Nowhere in the loosely joined chain was a weak link.
Before the departure the Americans had been at some trouble to rid
themselves of Yuara, who, with his men, had tarried at the Monitaya
_malocas_ during Tim's sickness. While Knowlton was giving his ripped
arm a final dressing he had calmly announced his intention of joining
the expedition into the Red Bone country, and it had taken some skillful
argument by Lourenço to dissuade him without arousing his anger. All
four of the adventurers would gladly have taken him along had he not
been hampered by his injury, but, under the ruthless rule barring all
men not in possession of all their strength, he had to be left.
Now, as on the previous jungle marches, the way was led by two of the
tribesmen, followed by the Brazilians and the Americans, after whom the
main body of the escort strode in column. The leader and guide, one
Tucu, was a veteran hunter, fighter, and bushranger, who had been more
than once in the Red Bone region and withal possessed the cool judgment
of mature years and long experience; a lean, silent man who, though not
a subchief, might have made a good one if given the opportunity. With
him Lourenço had already arranged that a direct course should be
followed, and that whenever dense undergrowth blockaded the way the
machete men should take the lead.
For some time no word was spoken. The path wound on, faintly marked, but
easy enough to follow with Tucu picking it out. It was not one of the
frequently used trails of the Monitaya people, but a mere _picada_, or
hunter's track; yet even this had its pitfalls to guard the tribal
house. Soon after leaving the clearing Tucu turned aside, passed between
trees off the trail, went directly under one tree whose steep-slanting
roots stood up off the ground like great down-pointing fingers, and
returned to the path. All followed without comment.
A considerable distance was covered before any further sign of the
presence of ambushed death was shown by the savages. Then it came with
tragic suddenness.
Tucu grunted suddenly, and in one instant shifted his gait from the easy
swing of the march to the prowl of a hunting animal. Behind him the line
grew tense. The click of rifle hammers and of safeties being thrown off
breech bolts blended with the faint slither of arrows being swiftly
drawn from quivers. Eyes searched the bush, spying no enemy.
Two more steps, and Tucu stopped, head thrust forward, eyes boring into
something on the ground. The rest, taking care not to touch one
another's weapons, crowded around and looked down at the huddled form of
a man.
A matted mass of black hair, a neck burned copper brown by sun, tattered
cotton shirt and trousers, big, bare dirty feet, a rusty repeating rifle
of heavy caliber--these were what they saw first. The man lay straight,
his face in the dirt, his hands a little ahead as if he had been
crawling forward at the moment of death. Tucu turned him on his back,
revealing a blanched yellow-brown face which was proof positive of his
race.
"Peruvian," said Pedro.
"What got him?" demanded Knowlton. "No wound on him."
Lourenço questioned Tucu. The leader, who evidently knew just where to
look, tore open the thin shirt at the left side and pointed to a tiny
discoloration surrounding a red dot under the ribs. He muttered a few
laconic words.
"A blowgun trap," Lourenço explained. "The gun is set a little way
beyond here. This man, sneaking along the path, broke the little cord
which shot the gun. The poisoned dart struck in his side. He must have
pulled out the dart, but he could not go far before his legs became
paralyzed, and he fell. Then, still trying to crawl, he died."
Pedro picked up the dead man's gun and worked the lever. The weapon was
fully loaded and showed no sign of recent firing. Pedro coolly pumped it
empty, gathered up the blunt .44 cartridges, and pocketed them for his
own use.
Tucu watched the proceeding in satirical approval. Then, leaving the
body where it lay, he went stooping along the path ahead, his keen eyes
searching the undergrowth. In a few minutes he returned with the
blood-stained dart which, as Lourenço had guessed, the stricken prowler
had pulled from his flesh and dropped. This he passed to a blowgun man.
The latter carefully opened his poison pouch, redipped the point of the
dart, held it a moment to dry in a shaft of sunlight, and slipped it
into his dart case among a score of unused missiles.
"No waste of ammunition here," was McKay's dry comment. "What happens to
this corpse now?"
Through Lourenço's mouth Tucu answered.
"It will be left here until police warriors come from the _malocas_.
Certain men travel the paths daily to inspect the traps. When they find
this man they will cut off his hands and feet with their wooden knives
and throw the rest aside to be eaten by the animals. He has not been
dead long or he would have been devoured by some wild thing before we
came. The trail travelers will set the trap again and take the hands and
feet to the _malocas_, where they will be washed, cooked, and eaten."
The faces of the Americans contracted slightly. A simultaneous thought
made them flash startled glances at each other.
"Tim--" Knowlton said, and paused. Lourenço smiled.
"No, Senhor Tim will not be expected to eat man meat," he assured them.
"I thought of that before we left--one never knows when these traps will
yield human flesh. So, without letting Monitaya know why I spoke, I told
him you North Americans believed the flesh of an enemy to be poisonous,
and that you would not eat it on that account. Monitaya will remember
that."
"By George! you have a head on your shoulders, old scout! I was worried
for a minute. If they offered Tim a broiled foot or a stewed hand he'd
go for his gun."
Briefly Tucu spoke. The Mayorunas separated and went into the forest,
seeking any sign of other enemies.
"Queer that this chap should come here alone--if he was alone," added
Knowlton. "Suppose he's the fellow that's been swiping stray girls? Or a
spy?"
"Neither, I think, senhor. The girls were captured by more than one man,
and I doubt if this one had been here before. Probably he was one of
those lone prowlers of the bush whose hand is against every man. He is a
half-breed, as you see, and came, perhaps, to steal a girl for himself.
The jungle is well rid of him."
"Uh-huh. Guess you're right. Say, I'd like to see how that blowgun trap
operates. Can't understand what blows the dart when nobody is here."
"I do not know, either, senhor. Perhaps Tucu will show us."
The savage guide, after a moment's hesitation, pointed along the trail
and stalked away, the others at his heels. At a spot some fifteen yards
farther on he turned into the bush at the right, walked a few paces away
from the path, turned again sharply to the left, advanced once more, and
halted. Before them, not easy to discern in the masking brush, even
though they were looking for it, hung the long barrel of the blowgun,
lashed to a couple of small trees and pointing toward the path.
Tucu stepped to the mouthpiece of the slender tube and pointed to a
sapling, just behind and in line with it, which had been cut off about
shoulder-high from the ground. From the tip of this thin trunk dangled a
wide strip of bark. The savage, having indicated this, stood as if the
action of the device were perfectly clear.
"Too deep for me," admitted McKay, after a puzzled study of the tube and
the trunk. The others nodded agreement. Lourenço confessed to the Indian
the blindness of all.
Thereupon Tucu bent the sapling far over and released it. As it sprang
erect the bark strip slapped the end of the gun. Also, the watchers saw
something hitherto unnoticed--a thin, flexible vine attached to the top
of the thin stump. Lourenço's face showed understanding.
"See, comrades, this is it: The little tree is bent far down and held by
the long vine. The vine passes around a low branch, then up over other
limbs, and out across the path, where it is fastened to a root near the
ground. A man following the path breaks the vine. The little tree then
flies up and the bark sheet strikes the wide mouthpiece of the gun. The
air forced into that mouthpiece by the blow of the bark shoots the
little dart. The dart does not fly as hard as if blown by a man, but it
goes swiftly enough to pierce the skin of anything except a tapir. As
soon as the poison is in the blood the work is done."
"It sure is done," Knowlton echoed, thinking of the short distance
covered by the dead Peruvian after passing this spot. "Mighty ingenious
apparatus. These people are no fools, I'll say."
"You say rightly," Pedro muttered. Turning, they went out to the path,
looking askance at the thin death tube as they passed along it.
The scouting Mayorunas returned, having found nothing. Tucu resumed his
place at the head of the line. Without a backward glance at the body
sprawling in the trail at the rear, the column swung into its usual
gait.
The Americans, silent before, were silent again. They had looked for the
first time on the work of the Mayoruna traps; had observed the
cold-blooded way in which the Indiana handled the still form on the
ground; had visualized the forthcoming mutilation of that body and the
resultant cannibal rites. More vividly than ever before they realized
that these men and Monitaya himself were relentless creatures of the
jungle, and that, despite the present existent friendliness, there
yawned between them and their barbarous allies an impassable gulf.
For the moment the jungle itself seemed a poisonous green abyss of
creeping, crawling, sneaking death. And though they had faced death too
often in another land to fear it in any form, though they marched on
with unwavering step, their eyes were somber as in their hearts echoed
the last appeal of the man they had left behind them:
"Ye ain't goin' to desert a comrade amongst a lot o' man eaters--"