THE SIREN OF WAR
Like a fleet manned by sightless sailors the line of boats blundered on
through the blackness. With no guiding light, the canoes bumped the
banks and collided with one another in perilous confusion. Speed was
impossible, yet speed was imperative. Knowlton and his little flashlight
solved the problem.
"Say, fellows, let's take the lead," he suggested. "This little light
isn't much, but it's something, and there are some extra batteries in my
haversack when this burns out. We can see a little way ahead, and pass
back the word to the rest. What say?"
"_Na terra dos cegos quem tem um olho e rei_--in blindman's land he who
has one eye is king," said Pedro. "That little white eye in your box may
save us all. Lourenço, tell those ahead to let us pass."
Without question the preceding dugouts swerved, and the boat of the
white men slipped by. At the head of the line they found Tucu and his
crew struggling manfully to make progress without wrecking the whole
fleet at the turns. Vast relief and instant acceptance of the new
leadership followed Lourenço's explanation. At once the floating column
began to pick up speed. And it was well that it did.
Howls of baffled hate came faintly through the tree mass from the Red
Bone town. Some time later more yells of rage sounded, much nearer--back
at a place on the creek which the last boat had cleared only a few
minutes previously. Some of the Umanuh men had made torches and run
along one of the Red Bone trails to a bend in the stream, only to find
the water bare of everything but dying ripples.
Whether the enemy attempted to follow in canoes the escaping party never
knew, for none succeeded in overtaking the rearmost boat. And after that
one snarling uproar on the creek bank they heard no more of the land
pursuit. The narrow margin of safety gained by the aid of the flashlight
proved enough to give a commanding lead, and from that time on the only
obstacles to their retreat were those of darkness and winding waters.
Hour after hour Knowlton squatted in the extreme bow, picking out the
turns and snags just ahead and passing the word back to Lourenço, who,
in the stern, steered in accordance with his orders and relayed the
course to Tucu, just behind. Amidships, Pedro and McKay plied steady
paddles and the Raposa lay all but forgotten on the baggage. There were
no halts. If any boat back in the blackness got into difficulties it
extricated itself as best it could, unaided by the rest, and fell into a
new place in the column.
At last a wan light, which was scarcely a light, but rather a lessening
of the density, came about the stream. The renewed racket of birds and
beasts announced that up overhead the sky had paled into dawn. Slowly
the nearest tree trunks began to take shape in the void, and presently
the shore line became visible to all eyes. At the same time Knowlton's
tiny lamp dimmed and faded out.
"Another battery gone," he announced, opening the case and dropping its
contents into the creek. "Ho-yo-ho-hum! Gee! I'm all in! Eyes feel like
a couple of burnt holes. Well, gents, I move that at the first available
spot we go ashore, feed our faces, look at the ladies, and perform our
morning salute to Umanuh--said salute consisting of applying the right
thumb to the end of the nose and snappily twiddling four fingers."
"Motion carried." McKay's set face relaxed. Then, his glance dropping to
the Raposa, it tightened again. "Oh, hullo, Rand! How you feeling?"
The unconscious man was unconscious no longer. Moreover, his expression
was not that of one just emerging from a stupor and bewildered as to his
surroundings. Though he had made no movement to change his position, his
eyes indicated that he had been awake for some time. They dwelt steadily
on McKay, then strayed past the captain to Pedro, Lourenço, and the
first Mayoruna crew following a few feet behind. His face was
inscrutable, and he spoke no word.
"You're with friends. Understand? Friends. You're going home. These
Indians are friends, too. Get that? _Friends!_"
The green eyes hung on McKay's face again; but, as before, no answer
came in word, movement, or expression.
"No good, Rod," said Knowlton, who could not see the rescued man's face,
but watched McKay's. "'Fraid I knocked his last brains down his throat.
Dead from the neck up."
"I don't know about that. He doesn't look vacant. See here, Rand. We're
going to land and eat! You hungry? Uh-huh. Thought you'd understand
that. He's alive, Merry. Maybe not all here, but enough to get us."
"Good!"
The blond man turned his attention downstream again. Soon he suggested,
"How about landing at that little open space down there at the left,
Lourenço?"
"Very good, senhor. It looks dry."
The canoe swerved and floated down to a spot on the left shore where
bright light poured down from an opening in the overhead wall of
foliage.
"Now look here, Rand," warned the captain. "We'll untie you. But if you
try to duck into the bush, now or later, you get shot. Shot!
Understand?"
He tapped his pistol, and the gray eyes boring into the green ones were
hard as chilled steel. For the first time Rand responded--a slow, short
nod.
McKay cut the cord around the wild man's ankles, then stepped ashore and
held out a hand. Rand arose quietly, jumped to the earth unassisted,
lifted his bad foot and stared at it, then limped onward into a spot
where the sun now shone bright and warm, and sat down to bask.
"Have to fix that foot, I expect," yawned Knowlton. "But my eyes right
now are one solid ache, and I'm going to rest them. Watch him, will you,
Rod? Can't tell what he might do. Of course you wouldn't shoot him,
but--"
"Wouldn't I? Not to kill, no. But if he makes one break I'll drill a leg
for him. He's going to the States!"
"Sure. I'm with you all the way. Now beat it and let me repose myself."
He bathed his eyes, then lay down in the canoe with a wet handkerchief
across them. Pedro and Lourenço already were ashore and raiding the
slender packs for food. The Mayorunas were debarking and watching each
new boat as it drew up, their eyes on the women who had wielded paddles
with them but whose faces they now saw closely for the first time. In
the shaft of sunlight McKay stood tall and forbidding, rifle in the
crook of one arm, hat pulled low, guarding the gaunt man at his feet and
viewing the landing of the expedition.
The women, all young, numbered eleven. Their skins looked slightly
pallid, their eyes too big and black, their faces somewhat drawn--the
results of close confinement and anxiety; but none showed any sign of
abuse. For commercial reasons alone, Umanuh had seen to it that the
woman flesh he held for sale should remain uninjured. Now, saved from
the slave trail or worse, the girls showed no more emotion than if on a
mere journey after turtles or fish. A few spoke to men whom they
evidently knew. Others gathered in a dumb cluster and awaited whatever
might come next. With these Tucu talked in gruff monosyllables.
When all were ashore, a dozen of the men went into the jungle to hunt.
The others sought firewood, inspected weapons, talked with one another
and with the girls, who stared at McKay and asked who he was. A number
of the warriors looked sourly at Rand, whose face still bore the Red
Bone tribal streaks which now, to Mayoruna minds, was the insignia of
the enemy. All knew he was the man who had been sought, all saw that he
was not a Red Bone, but a white man; yet their mental reaction to the
sight of the sinister red cross on the forehead and the straight cheek
lines was rabidly hostile. McKay, all-seeing, decided to wash Rand's
face for him before journeying much farther. But Rand himself gave no
sign that he either knew or cared what the feeling of the Mayorunas
might be. Utterly impassive, he stared back at them.
Then one of the women pointed at him and said something to Tucu. The
tall watchdog's jaw set a little harder as he waited the effect.
Somewhat to his surprise, Tucu and a couple of the other men now gave
Rand a more friendly look. Soon afterward Tucu passed Lourenço, who
talked with him a few minutes. Catching the Brazilian's eye, the captain
motioned him nearer and asked for any news.
"Tucu says, Capitao, that most of these girls are from _malocas_ other
than that of Monitaya, though some of Monitaya's women also are here.
And one of them says this man, the Raposa, tried to release them a short
time ago and was nearly killed by the Red Bones for it. They let him
live only because he is crazy, and they fear to kill a crazy man."
"What! He tried to get them clear?"
"Yes. He opened the door and motioned for them to run, but before they
could escape they were caught. He was badly beaten. You will remember
that he was hiding behind that same house when Pedro and Senhor Knowlton
saw him. Perhaps he meant to try again."
"Hm! Crazy and wild, but a white man for all that. How did you manage to
free the women?"
"Very simple," was the cool answer. "We stabbed the guards, opened the
door, and came back to the creek with the women."
"Just like that, eh? And the guards made no resistance, I suppose."
"Not much," grinned the bushman. "They were not allowed to."
"I see. Very simple, as you say. About as simple as our calm and
unhurried departure."
"Something like that, Capitao. What do you desire for breakfast--salt
fish and coffee, or coffee and salt fish?"
"A little of everything, thanks. Here comes some monkey meat, too."
The first of the hunters had returned, bringing two big red howlers.
Others drifted in at intervals, and not one returned empty handed; for
here in the virgin jungle the game was plentiful, particularly at this
early hour. Soon the air was heavy with the odor of broiling meat, and
from the fire of the Brazilians the fragrance of coffee was wafted to
the nostrils of the recumbent Knowlton. He arose, swallowing fast.
"Gee! I'm half drowned!" was his humorous complaint. "The smell of eats
makes my mouth water so fast I have to gasp for air. Must tickle your
nose, too, eh, Rand, old top?"
Rand, famished though he was, gave no sign of assent or of hunger. In
fact, he gave no sign of anything. Stoically he sat, eyes front.
"By thunder! the man's got pride!" the lieutenant added, in a lower
tone. "Almost ready to keel over from lack of food, but stiff as a
cigar-store Indian. Darned if I'm not beginning to respect him!"
Tucu approached, carrying two big monkey haunches. One he offered to
McKay, the other to Rand. The latter's immobility vanished in a flash.
With a lightning grab he seized the proffered meat and sank his teeth in
it. As he wolfed down the tough flesh the three men standing over
exchanged glances. Tucu laid a hand on his stomach and pressed inward,
signifying that the man had long gone hungry. The others nodded. Then
they split the other haunch between them and fell to gnawing.
Lourenço, bringing coffee to the captain, asked Tucu in what direction
the Monitaya houses lay. Without hesitation the Indian pointed off to
the left. The Brazilian glanced at the creek, estimating its general
direction and rate of flow, then returned to his fire.
Offered coffee, Rand took it and sipped it with evident relish. Likewise
he accepted a cigarette, which he puffed like a man just learning to
smoke--or one who has not smoked for years. For his meat, his drink, and
his smoke he gave no indication of gratitude. His attitude was as
indifferent and matter-of-fact as if he were one of the Mayorunas. When
his smoke was ended he began inspecting his bad foot.
"Let's see that," said Knowlton, dropping on one knee. "Looks pretty
sore. Yes, it's more than sore; it's infected. How'd you get it,
anyway?"
No answer. Knowlton probed his face keenly. Rand straightened out his
legs, wriggled his toes, and scowled.
"Queer!" muttered the lieutenant, rising. "He looks as if he actually
didn't know how he got that wound. You'd think he'd remember that much,
anyhow. I sure am afraid his head is all scrambled up."
He went to the canoe, returned with his meager medical kit, and knelt
again.
"Now listen here, Rand. I don't know how well you understand me, but I'm
taking the chance. This foot has to be opened up and cleaned out.
Otherwise you're going to have serious trouble with it. I'm going to
hurt you. If you raise a row you'll get an anæsthetic--a swift punch
under the ear. Better sit still and make no fuss."
With which he went to work. He did a thorough job, and there was no
doubt that it hurt. But Rand gave no trouble, nor even a sign of
pain--except that he dug his fingers into the dirt.
"Good boy!" the amateur surgeon approved, when he finished. "You're a
Spartan--if you happen to remember what that is. Now we'll move on. But
before we go, wash your face good and hard. Get that tribe paint off.
These Indians with us don't like it. You're no Indian, anyhow; you're
white, like us. Savvy? White man. Wash off paint!"
He rolled up his kit and returned to the canoe. The Mayorunas, men and
women, were entering their own craft. Rand sat motionless a moment,
McKay and the Brazilians watching him keenly. Slowly then he got up of
his own accord, limped to the water's edge, and began to scrub his face.
When he desisted the marks still showed, for the red dye clung
stubbornly to his skin; but they were fainter than before. The other men
eyed him thoughtfully, none speaking. He settled himself in his former
place, curled up, and began to doze.
"A queer fish!" Pedro said, softly. "Is he crazy or not?"
"Hanged if I know," replied McKay. "He's no maniac, anyhow. I'd give
real money to know just what his mental condition is. But we can forget
him for a while. I'm going to let you fellows sleep by turns now. I had
some sleep last night; you've had none at all. Merry, your eyes need
rest. You curl up in the bow and snooze one hour. Then another man, and
so on. And how about letting Tucu lead the parade again?"
"Excellent, Capitao! I was thinking of that." Lourenço talked to Tucu,
who swung out into the current. The boat of the white men followed, then
the others. At a steady cruising speed the brigade surged on downstream.
Knowlton's allotted hour passed. Pedro took his place and was instantly
asleep. In turn he was aroused, and Lourenço laid down his paddle. But
just then Tucu's canoe slowed and floated in to the left bank.
The others backed water and looked at a very narrow ravine--almost a
cleft--in a rising hillside. Through it led a lane of water. From the
third boat, in which were two women of the Monitaya tribe, now came
voices carrying information to the Indian leader. At once he turned his
boat into the cleft.
"This is the connection we have been seeking." Lourenço explained. "The
women say the boats of their captors came through this crack in the
hill. At the end we shall find the creek of Monitaya."
The women spoke truth. After threading their way along the weedy
water-path, which was barely wide enough to give passage for the boats,
they emerged at a slant into another stream. Down this, with the sure
instinct for direction of the hereditary jungle-dweller, Tucu turned his
prow without asking the women whether to go with or against the current.
Once more on the waters of their home creek, the Mayorunas quickened
their strokes and howled merrily on toward their _malocas_.
Lourenço took his nap and resumed his place. Hour after hour the fleet
sped on. Noon passed without a halt, the paddlers munching at whatever
fragments remained from breakfast. By turns the Americans and Brazilians
each got another hour's sleep, McKay consenting to relax when all his
mates had rested. Rand dozed and awoke at intervals, seeming content and
comfortable despite his cramped position.
By four o'clock even the Mayorunas began to lag in their strokes.
Excluding the halt at sunrise, they now had been journeying for fifteen
hours, in the last nine of which they had covered many miles of
serpentine water. The heat of the day and the constant drive of the
paddles had taken their toll, and now the body of every man fiercely
demanded more food. McKay, knowing that in jungle travel distance is not
a matter of miles, but of hours, had begun to figure that the journey
which had taken nearly five days of overland work might be completed
that night by the swiftly moving canoes. But now, recognizing the signs
of exhaustion, he realized that without some powerful spur the Indians
would not attempt to reach the home _malocas_ until the morrow.
Then the spur came. Even as Tucu began scanning the shores for a good
camp site, he and every other Mayoruna suddenly ceased paddling and
threw up his head. Faint and far, a xylophonic call of beaten wooden
bars rapped across the jungle, rising and falling in swift, regular
cadence--a sirenical flow and ebb of sound waves. Over and over it
undulated, rapid, incessant, imperative.
A chorus of excited grunts broke from the canoe brigade. The dugout of
Tucu leaped away like a roweled horse. Lourenço and Pedro buried their
paddles in mighty strokes, hurling their boat ahead to keep from being
run down by those behind.
Lourenço barked at Tucu, who flung back an answer.
"Paddle hard, Capitao! If we do not keep up we shall be wrecked. That
message is the war call of the Mayorunas--calling in the hunters from
the forest to take arms against an enemy. We must race now with these
madmen around us, or we go under. Paddle!"