PARTNERS
Seven men squatted around a camp fire on the river bank. Beyond them,
half revealed by the flickering light of the flames, rose the poles of a
_tambo_ wherein empty hammocks hung waiting. At the edge of the water
lay two canoes.
Five of the men wore the habiliments of civilized beings, though their
shirts and breeches were so tattered and stained that a civilized
community would have looked askance at them. The other two were nude as
savages, but their beards and tanned skins were those of white men.
Beards of varying length seemed, in fact, to be the fashion, for
everyone present wore one, and all but two were very dark. Of the odd
pair, one's thin face was partly covered by stubby, blond hair, while
the other's jaw was masked by a growth of unmistakable red.
Lifting their cigarettes, the blond man and a tall, eagle-faced comrade
moved their arms stiffly, as if still hampered by injuries. Newly healed
scars showed on the skins of the rest.
"Injuns are a funny lot," declared the red-haired one. "There's
Monitaya, now. Keeps us a couple weeks, doctors us half to death, feeds
us till we gag, gives us new canoes, sends a platoon o' hard guys with
us to see that we git to the river safe--and don't even say good-by. No
handshake, no 'Good luck, fellers'--jest a grin like we was goin' to
walk round the house and come right back. And the lads that come out
with us done the same--turned round and quit us without a word. I bet if
we lived amongst 'em long we'd git to be dummies, too."
For a moment there was silence. For no apparent reason all glanced at
one of the naked men, on whose skin faintly showed reddish streaks.
"You would," he said.
"Huh! Gee! Rand's talkin' again! First time since we licked them Red
Boneheads. Two whole words. Go easy, feller, easy!"
"I will be easy. But it's time I talked. I am not dumb. I am not crazy."
The green-eyed man spoke slowly, as if forming each word in his mind
before pronouncing it. The rest squatted with eyes riveted on his face.
"I have not talked before because I had to find myself. I had to hear
English spoken and become used to it. I had to put things together in my
mind. Even now some things are not clear. But I can talk and make sense
of my talk. I will tell what I can remember. First tell me one thing.
McKay, am I a murderer?"
"A murderer? You? If you are we never heard of it."
"A man named Schmidt. Gustav Schmidt. German merchant at Manaos."
"Gustav Schmidt? Piggy little runt, bald and fat, with a scar across his
chin?"
"Yes."
"He's dead, but you didn't kill him. He was shot a little while ago by a
young Brazilian for getting too intimate with the young fellow's wife.
We heard about it while we were in Manaos, and saw his picture. What
about him?"
"I thought I killed him. I struck him with a bottle. I was told he was
dead. How long have I been here?"
"You left the States in 1915. It is now 1920."
"Five years? My God! What has happened in that time? Is my mother well?"
The others looked pityingly at him. Slowly Knowlton spoke.
"Your mother died two years ago from heart trouble. Your uncle, Philip
Dawson, also is dead."
Rand's jaw set. The others shifted their gaze and busied themselves with
making new cigarettes, spending much time over the simple task.
"Poor mother!" Rand said, huskily. "Uncle Phil--he was a good old scout.
And I was here--buried alive--only half alive! My head--Tell me, what
happened on the night before you dressed my lame foot? I remember
clearly everything from the time I woke in the canoe before daylight
that morning. Before that there is a blur."
Knowlton sketched the events of that night, and told also of the glimpse
which he and Pedro had caught of the "wild man" while waiting outside
the house of the Red Bone chief. A flash lit up Rand's face.
"So that is how I got my sore head. You struck me with your rifle butt.
That explains much. Before I became a wild beast I was shot in the head.
The bullet did not go through the skull. It struck me a terrible blow on
the crown. When I recovered consciousness I was not myself. I have never
been the same until--"
"Gee cripes!" exploded Tim. "That's it. I seen that same thing up home.
Bug Sullivan, it was. When he was a li'l' feller he tumbled downstairs
and hit his head, and for 'most ten years he was foolish. Then a brick
fell off a buildin' and landed on his bean. It knocked him for a gool,
but when he come out of it he was bright as a new dime. Looey, when ye
busted Rand with yer gun ye jarred somethin' loose inside, and now he's
good as any of us."
"By George! You're right!" cried the lieutenant. "Things like that do
happen. I've heard of them. Haven't you, Rod?"
McKay nodded.
"That is it," affirmed the Raposa. "I have not been insane. But much was
gone from me. My mind was a house full of closed doors which I could not
open. I knew who I was and why I was here, but I knew also that
something had happened to my brain; knew I was defective; believed I was
wanted for murder. So I could not go out. I could only stay here, prowl
the jungle, live the jungle life.
"Now that the closed doors have opened again, others have swung shut. I
cannot remember much of my wild-beast life here. Some things are clear.
Too clear. Torturings and horrible feasts. Perhaps I should be grateful
that some things are forgotten.
"But now my life up to the time I was shot is plain again. I talked with
a man who had traveled the Amazon and the Andes. I never had seen
either, and I was ripe for something new. A steamer was just sailing
south, and I got aboard in a hurry. No baggage but a suitcase and five
thousand dollars. I had traveled a good deal--Europe, Canada, Japan--and
always found that plenty of money was all a man needed. Thought it was
the same way here. I've learned better.
"I visited Rio--a few hours--and then came up along the coast and
inland. At Manaos I got into trouble. Went ashore and got to drinking
with two Germans. One of them--Schmidt--grew ugly and said a lot of
rotten things about the States. Tell me something, men--is the war over
and did our country get into it?"
"It is, and it did." And Knowlton outlined the epochal occurrences of
the world conflict.
"And I missed that, too!" mourned Rand. "But I started a war of my own
down here, anyway. When I quit seeing red I had a bottle neck in my hand
and both the Germans were down. Somebody said Schmidt was dead. A couple
of men tried to grab me. I fought my way clear, hid awhile, got back on
the boat without being noticed, and paid one of the crew well to hide me
in the hold and feed me. Nearly died from heat and suffocation down
there, but lived to reach Iquitos, where my man smuggled me ashore. I
thought I was safe there. But before I could make a move to travel on I
fell into the hands of that cursed Schwandorf."
"Schwandorf!"
"Schwandorf. He was in Iquitos. The sailor who hid me must have sold me
out to him. Schwandorf told me he was a police officer in Brazilian
employ. Said he would take me back to stand trial for murdering Schmidt.
The dirty blackmailer took all my money to keep his mouth shut and take
me to a 'safe place.' The safe place was up this river. I came up here
with him in a canoe paddled by some tough Peruvians. Then he began
trying to bully me into doing dirty work for him--running women into
Peru. I saw red again and jumped for him. He gave me that bullet on the
head.
"After that things are badly blurred. I found myself among savages. How
I got there, why I wasn't killed, I don't know. Schwandorf was there
awhile. Then he went away with his gang, leaving me very sure of only
one thing--I was a murderer and would be executed if caught. And--well,
that's about all, except that the savages seemed rather afraid of me and
didn't want me around."
There was another silence. Then Lourenço remarked:
"Between Schmidt and Schwandorf you have suffered much. It is possible
that there was a connection of some sort between them. But neither can
ever trouble you again. I do not see why Schwandorf took the trouble
even to put you among the Red Bones. One more bullet would have ended
you."
"Any ideas on that subject, José?" asked McKay.
"Only a guess, Capitan. I was not here five years ago, and I knew
nothing of Schwandorf then. But I know he always schemed for his own
good and overlooked no chances. So perhaps, finding this man not dead,
but darkened in mind by his bullet, he thought he might be able to use
him in some way at some future time. A dead man is not useful to anyone.
If this man should never become valuable he could live and die forgotten
among savages, where he could do Schwandorf no harm. If worth something
he could be found again."
"Cold-blooded Prussian efficiency," nodded McKay. Then he spoke directly
to Rand.
"Since you're mentally sound," he went on, "we may as well tell you how
you happen to be among us. We three--Merry, Tim, and I--came here to
find you. The settlement of the Dawson estate hinges on you."
"On me? How? I've no claim to it. Paul Dawson, Uncle Phil's son--"
"Is dead, too. Killed in action in the Argonne, You're next in line."
McKay watched him keenly. So did Knowlton. The half-expected jubilance
did not come.
"So Paul's gone," was Rand's reply. "Hard luck. Suppose I hadn't been
found--then what?"
"In due time the money would go to a school. Boys' school."
"Orphans? Blind? Cripples?"
"Hardly." McKay's mouth curved sardonically. He named a preparatory
school of the "exclusive" type. Rand's mouth also twisted.
"That hotbed of snobbery? That twin sister to a society girls' finishing
school? Might have known it, though. Uncle Phil was fond of the sort of
education that doesn't educate. I'm glad you fellows found me. I'll go
home and collect every red cent, just to keep it out of the hands of the
supercilious bunch of bishops that run that sissy-spawner."
Knowlton chuckled appreciatively.
"It's not the sort of school that breeds he-men, for a fact," he agreed.
"But you don't seem much enthused over having a couple of millions
dropped into your lap."
Rand sat still. His face remained cheerless, impassive.
"What is money?" he said, presently. "I've always had plenty of it.
What's it done for me? When you have it you can't tell whether people
are friends to you or only friends to your money. It makes you cynical,
suspicious. What's worse, you depend too much on it. You think it will
do everything. Then if you land in a place where it's no good and you
haven't got it, anyway, you're up against it a good deal harder than the
fellow who never had it but knows how to handle himself without it."
"True for ye," Tim concurred, heartily. "All the same, I bet ye'll
change yer tune after ye git home."
"Will I?" The green eyes impaled him. "Maybe. But I don't think so. I've
had my run at blowing in money on myself alone. Now I'm going to blow
some on other folks. I missed out on the war, but--There must be quite a
few of our fellows lamed and crippled by that war. And I'll gamble that
the government isn't treating them all like princes. I know something
about governments."
"Princes? Say, feller, there's many a dog that's took better care of
than some of our boys back home!"
"So I thought. The income from a couple of millions, along with some of
the principal, will do a lot of good if used right. And--" His eyes
turned to the three bushmen.
"Do not look at us in that way," said Lourenço, reading his thought. "We
can make all the money we need, and we came with the capitao and his
comrades only because we wanted excitement. Use your money for the
crippled men who need it."
"And José Martinez also is well able to provide for his wants," coolly
added the other naked man. "I am here only to settle old scores, and now
they are settled. Each man is goaded by his own spur--money, wine,
women, excitement, revenge. Money is not mine."
He yawned, arose, stretched like a cat, and stepped toward his hammock.
The two Brasilians also moved toward the _tambo_. The others stood a
moment longer beside the fire.
"Well, since we three didn't come here because of wine, women, or
revenge," Knowlton said, whimsically, "it must have been for money and
excitement. Don't know which was the stronger lure, but if we could have
only one of the two I think we'd let the money slide. How about it,
Rod?"
"Right! And, Rand, let me say this: Before we knew you we had an
impression that you were more or less of a worthless pup. We've changed
our ideas. If you ever go broke and want to hit a trail into some new
place to make a strike of your own, and you need partners, let us know."
And he held out his hand.
The naked millionaire took it. For the first time a faint smile
lightened his face.
"I'll do that, partners!" he promised.
"Yeah! That's the word. Pardners! Only, li'l' Timmy Ryan bucks at ever
travelin' back into this here, now, Ja-va-ree jungle. I got enough of
it. Right now I'm homesick."
"So say we all," affirmed Knowlton. "Now let's turn in."
But Tim stood a little longer looking out at the moonlit river and the
two waiting canoes. His gaze roved along the stream, northward. He
lifted his head, opened his mouth, expanded his lungs, and then the
astounded denizens of forest and stream cut short their discordant
concert to listen to something they never had heard before and never
would hear again--a great voice thundering a censored version of a North
American army song.
"Home, boys, home! Home we want to be!
Home, boys, home, in God's countree!
We'll raise Ol' Glory to the top o' the pole
And we'll all come back--not a dog-gone soul!"