The Shrunken Heads
Wildly, Biff tumbled from his hammock to the soggy ground. Coming to his
hands and knees, he started forward just as another figure sprang into
the firelight, too late to halt Luiz’s knife. The newcomer grabbed
Luiz’s shoulders and spun the little man full about. For a moment, Luiz
poised his blade as though planning to counter the attack.
Instead, he uttered an unearthly shriek, as though he had seen a ghost.
Biff was startled, too, but his cry was a glad one. Etched against the
firelight, Biff saw his dad’s face looking down at Luiz.
Tom Brewster himself was the man who had interrupted Luiz’s deadly work.
The figure under the poncho, Biff realized, must be a dummy.
As the two men struggled for possession of the knife, they kicked the
dummy apart with their feet. Suddenly Luiz managed to wrench free and
dashed off into the jungle.
Mr. Brewster didn’t bother to start after the terrified guide. But Hal
Whitman came rushing from the shelter waving a revolver. Mr. Whitman
fired a few wild shots in the direction that Luiz had taken. The
crackling of jungle plants came back like echoes, indicating that the
gunfire had spurred Luiz’s mad flight.
“That’s enough, Hal,” laughed Mr. Brewster. “The fellow is so badly
scared he won’t stop running until he reaches Serbot’s camp.”
“And the more he runs,” returned Mr. Whitman, “the more difficulty he
will have finding it in the dark. Well, if Luiz gets lost in the jungle,
he won’t talk to Serbot.”
“I don’t think it matters much, Hal. Luiz has already told Serbot all he
knows.”
“Except that we found out his game. Now he will tell that to Serbot,
too—if he finds him.”
By the flickering firelight, Biff saw his father’s face take on a
troubled expression.
“You’re right, Hal,” decided Mr. Brewster grimly. “I hadn’t thought of
that. It would be better to catch Luiz and take him along with us. It’s
probably too late now, but it may be worth a try.” Mr. Brewster turned
to Jacome. “Call Luiz, and see if he answers.”
Jacome gave a long call: “Luiz! Luiz!” Faintly, like a faraway echo, a
voice responded: “_Ajudo! Ajudo!_”
In the firelight, Biff and Kamuka exchanged startled glances. Both had
the same sudden thought, but it was Biff who exclaimed, “The quicksand!
Luiz must have taken the same path that we did this afternoon!”
Jacome was calling “Luiz!” again, but this time there was no response.
Mr. Brewster gave the prompt order:
“Bring lights and hurry!”
From the way the path showed in the gleam of their flashlights, it was
plain that Luiz could have followed it rapidly in the dark, for it
formed the only opening through the brush. Biff and Kamuka, racing along
beside Jacome, were the first to reach the arch of trees above the
quicksand.
They halted there, but saw no sign of a human figure in the muck. The
glare revealed nothing but floating water flowers until big Jacome
pointed out what appeared to be a lily pad. Biff exclaimed:
“Luiz’s hat!”
It was lying brim downward in the ooze, beyond the bough from which Biff
had rescued Kamuka. This time it was Kamuka who scrambled along the
branch and used a big stick that Jacome tossed him to prod the
quicksand, but with no result.
From the bank, Mr. Brewster studied the scene grimly, noting that the
farther out Kamuka jabbed the stick, the easier and deeper it went.
“That cry from Luiz was his last,” decided Mr. Brewster. “In his flight,
he must have plunged much farther than Kamuka did this afternoon. That
is why the quicksand swallowed him much faster.”
From the bank, Jacome and other natives dragged the mire with stones
attached to long liana vines, but received no answering tugs from the
pulpy quicksand. When they pushed long sticks down into the mire, they
went completely out of sight, to stay.
“There’s no reclaiming anything lost in those depths,” Biff’s father
said soberly. “That goes for Luiz, too.”
When they returned to the campsite, Mr. Brewster dismantled the crude
dummy that he had placed beside the fire. It was formed from wads of
grass, palm stalks, and small logs, which had made it bulky enough to be
mistaken for a sleeping figure in the uncertain firelight.
“After what you told me,” Mr. Brewster said to Biff and Kamuka, “I
decided to test Luiz. I did everything but mention Joe Nara by name. I
made this dummy figure so I could watch Luiz if he tried to steal the
map he had been told I carried. At the same time, I was guarding my life
against his treachery.”
“But, Dad!” exclaimed Biff. “Serbot never told Luiz to kill you. He
simply told him to delay our safari.”
“And to Luiz’s way of thinking,” declared Mr. Brewster, “the simplest
way of accomplishing that would be by killing me. Here in the jungle,
people think and act in very direct terms, particularly the natives.”
Mr. Brewster and Mr. Whitman began a discussion of the next steps to be
taken. They agreed that the sooner the safari moved along, the better.
Mr. Brewster put a question to Jacome.
“You have been to Piedra Del Cucuy before, Jacome. Could you find your
way there again?”
“I think so, Senhor.”
“Then you will be our guide as far as the big rock. Have the bearers
ready to move at dawn.”
Daylight was tinting the vast canopy of jungle leaves when the safari
started back toward the main trail. The setting was somber at this early
hour, but the silence was soon broken by some scattered jungle cries.
Then, clear and sharp, came the metallic note of the bellbird. Mr.
Brewster waved the safari to a stop and said:
“Listen.”
The call was repeated. Mr. Brewster turned to Kamuka and asked:
“What kind of bird is that? _Campanero_ or Urubu?”
Biff smiled at the way his father used the term for “bellbird” along
with Urubu’s nickname of “vulture.” But Kamuka kept a very serious face
as he replied.
“It is Urubu. Look, Senhor. I show you why.”
He pointed to a white-feathered bird that formed a tiny spot on the high
branch of a tree.
“There is real _campanero_,” declared Kamuka. “He is saying nothing. He
would answer if he heard real call.”
Mr. Brewster studied the bellbird through a pair of binoculars and
promptly agreed with Kamuka. He handed the glasses to Biff, who noted
that the bird, which was something like a waxwing, but larger, had an
appendage that extended from its forehead and draped down over its bill.
This ornament, jet-black in color, was starred with tiny tufts of
feathers. Mr. Brewster called it a caruncle and explained that it was
commonly seen on various species of tropical birds noted for their
ringing cries.
But this bellbird remained silent, even when the distant anvil sound
clanged anew.
“Urubu is signaling for Luiz,” declared Mr. Brewster. “He may wait an
hour or so and try again. When Serbot finally decides that we have moved
on, he will think that Luiz is taking us the long way. We should get a
good head start, right now.”
The safari pressed forward at a quick pace which was maintained most of
the day. The going was not as hard as Biff had anticipated. Luiz’s talk
of a tough trail had been a sham, so that the party would be willing to
take the long route.
Even some of the streams they encountered were already bridged with
fallen trees, making crossing easy. After one such crossing, Jacome
suggested stopping to eat. Mr. Brewster opened some canned goods, but
most of the bearers preferred bowls of coarse cereal, made from the
manioc or cassava plant. This formed their chief diet.
Jacome gnawed on a large bone of left-over tapir meat. When he had
finished half of the meat, he suddenly tossed the bone into the stream.
Instantly, the water flashed with silvery streaks in the shape of long,
sleek fish that fought for the bone and tore the remaining meat to
shreds.
“Piranha,” grunted Jacome. “They rip anybody who goes in water. If we
chop away tree, Urubu will have to stop to build new bridge to get
across.”
“Serbot might suspect something,” objected Mr. Brewster. “If they guess
that we are on the same trail _ahead_ of them, they will hurry. It is
better to let them think that they can take their time.”
Jacome still found time to fish for piranha during the short rest. The
cannibal fish practically leaped from the water to take the bait. Jacome
took no chances with the sharp teeth that projected from their bulldog
jaws. He cut the lines and tossed the fish into a basket, hooks and all.
When the safari made camp at dusk, they cooked the piranha, and the fish
proved a tasty dinner, indeed.
Mr. Brewster kept the safari at a steady pace during the next few days
in order to stay ahead of Serbot’s party. Jacome proved an excellent
guide, remembering every landmark along the trail. One afternoon, a rain
ended as they trudged beside the bank of a sluggish stream and Jacome
pointed into the distance with the comment:
“Big rock. There.”
It was Piedra Del Cucuy, a huge, stumpy shaft of granite, towering
hundreds of feet above the forest. The rock was streaked with tiny trees
that looked like sprinklings from the vast green vegetation that spread
beneath. Though the natural boundary marker was still a day’s march
away, the mere sight of it spurred on the safari.
In the light of dawn, the big rock seemed much closer, and within a few
hours’ trek, even its cracks and furrows showed sharply. Trails began to
join, and suddenly the trees spread as the safari emerged upon a sandy
beach lapped by the black water of the Rio Negro.
There wasn’t a sign of a boat nor of any habitation until Kamuka pointed
to a movement in the brush, a few hundred feet downstream. Mr. Brewster
stepped forward, spreading his arms with a wide sweep.
“If it’s Joe Nara,” Mr. Brewster told Biff, “he will recognize us. If
not, be ready to get back to shelter!”
Two figures bobbed into sight, and Biff recognized the squatty forms of
Igo and Ubi. They turned and gestured. A few moments later they were
joined by Joe Nara. All three came forward to meet the safari. Nara was
carrying a small package under his arm.
The bearers were laying down their packs and other equipment when Nara
cried excitedly:
“We hoped it would be you, Brewster, but we weren’t sure. The Macus have
been attacking villages up and down the river. Everywhere, we have heard
the cry: ‘Macu! Macu!’ until we—”
“Hold it, Nara,” broke in Mr. Brewster. “We have more important things
to talk about first.”
The native bearers were coming forward silently, and Biff realized that
they were drawn by that dreaded word, Macu. But Mr. Brewster wasn’t able
to hush Joe Nara.
“What’s more important than Macu head-hunters?” the old man demanded.
“If you don’t believe me, Brewster, look at what I picked up downriver!”
Before Mr. Brewster could stop him, Joe Nara ripped open the package
that he carried. Under the eyes of the native bearers who now were
crowding close about him, Nara brought out a pair of shrunken human
heads, triumphantly displaying one in each hand!