The Man of Gold
When Joe Nara reached the big campfire, he extended his hands above the
simmering kettle and swept them back and forth in slow, impressive
fashion. His back was toward the half-circle of tribesmen, but now, he
changed position.
First to the right, then to the left of the fire, Nara repeated his odd
ritual. Finally, he stepped beyond the fire and turned to face the group
through the rising steam which wavered and curled about his arms as he
repeated his ceremony.
Two savage spearmen had stepped up to flank him with poised weapons, but
Nara paid them no attention. Biff looked slowly around and saw that he
and his father were under similar guard. So were Kamuka and Hal Whitman,
as well as Jacome and the other natives. Whatever Nara might do, there
would be no chance to make a run for the boats.
Now Nara was drawing his shirt sleeves clear up past his elbows. He
looked like a wizened wizard as he showed one bare arm and then the
other, holding his upraised hands with widespread fingers. Looking
toward the sun, which was almost overhead, Nara made a clutching motion
with his right hand; then a downward throw toward the kettle, as though
flinging blobs of sunlight into the bubbling liquid.
Then, he boldly drove his right arm shoulder deep into the kettle,
keeping it there while he stirred the boiling water with his bare arm.
The tribesmen began an excited babble when they realized that Nara was
unharmed. It became a shout when Nara brought his hand from the kettle
and raised it high, for all to see.
From fingertips to above his elbow, Nara’s hand and arm glittered like
burnished gold, catching the sparkle of the sunlight which he had
seemingly captured to transform his flesh into that precious metal. Now
the tribesmen were shouting recognition:
“El Dorado! El Dorado!”
Nara apparently had turned legend into fact. To prove his power, he
repeated the process with his left arm. He showed it bare and white,
dipped it deep into the hissing water and brought it out all golden like
his right.
The cry of “El Dorado! El Dorado!” increased as Nara stalked among the
Maco tribesmen, showing them his hands and arms at close range. The
warriors were awed, from their chief down to the pair of spearmen who
were supposed to keep Nara a prisoner—something which they had now
forgotten in their amazement.
The Wai Wais remained silent. Igo, Ubi, and Nara’s other followers had
seen him perform this wonder. They took his power for granted. Now, at a
word from Nara, Igo and Ubi gathered up small pebbles which they showed
to the Maco tribesmen.
Nara went back to the big kettle, and there he took pebbles first from
Igo, then from Ubi, promptly dipping them in the bubbling brew. As he
brought out the pebbles, he held them in the sunlight, showing them to
be pure gold. Nara gave the magic stones to Igo and Ubi to distribute
among the Maco warriors, who crowded forward to receive the gifts.
Biff found himself practically alone beside his father. In an awed tone,
Biff asked, “How did Nara work that trick, Dad?”
“He stirred the water to reduce its temperature,” explained Mr.
Brewster. “It had begun to boil at the top, but was still cool below.
I’ve seen the Fiji Islanders do a similar stunt.”
“But how did he turn his hands and arms all golden?”
“With some dye, probably, that he dropped into the water while he was
making passes over it.”
“I still can’t see how he managed to fool those natives into thinking
that those colored pebbles are real gold.”
“They are real gold,” Biff’s father stated, with a smile. “Remember all
those nuggets that Nara carries? I think he has been palming them from
his pockets. Every time he dips a pebble into the kettle, he lets it
drop and brings out a nugget instead.”
Biff watched Nara give the dip treatment to a few more pebbles, then
nodded.
“I think you’re right, Dad,” said Biff, “but Nara is mighty clever at
it. Only why is he handing out so many nuggets?”
“To buy our freedom, son,” returned Mr. Brewster. “Look. Nara is
bargaining with the chief right now.”
The nuggets apparently weren’t enough, for the Maco chief was shaking
his head emphatically. Nara promptly came up with a much bigger offer.
He picked some stones the size of hen’s eggs and began passing them
among the tribesmen, who nodded eagerly.
“Nara can’t possibly be carrying nuggets the size of those stones,”
declared Mr. Brewster. “They’d weigh him down so he couldn’t walk. Get
ready now to run for it.”
Biff passed the word to Kamuka, who relayed it to Whitman. By then, the
Maco chief had accepted the ransom offer, but wanted the big stones
turned to gold. Nara went to the kettle, pretended to throw in more
fistfuls of sunlight, then turned to the chief and made a beckoning
gesture, as he cackled:
“Come and get it!”
Headed by the chief, the tribesmen made a charge for the magic kettle,
all anxious to turn their stones into gold before the pot ran out of
concentrated sunlight. Nara stepped away to let them pass, then waved
for Mr. Brewster and the rest to begin their own dash the opposite way.
They raced for the boats and were clambering on board, with Nara only a
few yards behind them, when the milling tribesmen noticed their flight.
Still, the natives were too busy to be bothered until they found that
the stones refused to turn to gold. Then they threw them down and
grabbed up their spears instead, but by that time the motors were
spinning and the boats were under way, with Igo hauling Nara over the
side of their _monteria_ while Ubi handled the helm.
Some of the natives started a pursuit in their canoes, but the outboards
soon outdistanced them. All seemed safe and serene during the next half
hour, while they followed deep though sometimes narrow channels. Then,
from far in the jungle behind them, came the _bom-bom-bom_ of a savage
drum.
Nara signaled for the boats to draw together for a conference. In a
worried tone, old Joe announced:
“Maco drums. You can hear them for thirty or forty miles. They are
telling other tribes to be on the watch for us. So be ready for
trouble.” He paused, then asked Mr. Brewster in a low, confidential
tone, “How did you like the golden arm trick?”
“Very good,” replied Mr. Brewster. “But these natives use paints
themselves to color their faces and bodies, so I can’t understand how
you fooled them with a dye.”
Biff was close enough to hear Nara’s chuckle.
“I didn’t use dye,” Nara stated. “I used a fine powder made from dried
plants, sprinkled with tiny flakes of gilt, that spreads on the water
like a dust. Dip your hand in and bring it out, the stuff gathers and
clings like a snug rubber glove. After it dries, you wipe it off.”
[Illustration: Canoes on the river]
Nara showed his hands, now perfectly clean; then added, “I sprinkled
just about enough for myself, so those Indians didn’t get any on their
own hands. They still think that I alone have the golden touch, but even
my being El Dorado won’t help us now that they feel I robbed them.”
[Illustration: Drummers]
An hour later, the drums were still throbbing when Joe Nara pointed
above the jungle to a huge, flat-topped mountain that towered like a
mighty mesa above the wavy green.
“Cerro Duida,” called Nara, from his boat. “One of the biggest mountains
in the Parima chain, about a mile and a half high. It was a long time
before anybody climbed it, because Indians are afraid to go with them,
on account of the spirits they think live on top. It’s kind of tied in
with the El Dorado story. Anyway, Cerro Duida is close to the Orinoco
River—”
Nara broke off as some canoes came scooting from the canal banks, filled
with armed natives. Motors were opened to the full, and the flotilla
again outdistanced the native dugouts. But Biff, at the bow of his
father’s _monteria_, saw new problems ahead.
“We’ve missed the main channel, Dad,” Biff called to the stem. “It’s
shallow ahead, with a lot of sandbars.”
Mr. Brewster cut off his motor and signaled for the other boats to do
the same.
“We’d better pole our way through,” he decided. “We still have time
before those natives catch up with us, and we can’t risk getting
stranded on a sandbar.”
“Watch where you push pole,” Kamuka advised Biff. “Big _sucuria_ may
wrap around it.”
As Kamuka pointed, Biff saw a huge anaconda lazily sunning itself on a
sandbar near the canal bank. Beyond that were others; in fact, the area
was alive with the giant snakes, though none appeared to be active.
Carefully, the boats were poled through the channels without disturbing
the basking boas. Biff looked back and counted a dozen of them, still in
repose. Snakes as well as shallows had been avoided, when Nara’s boat
ran on a hidden sandbar that the others had crossed. With its heavy
cargo of ore, Nara’s _monteria_ refused to budge.
Mr. Brewster attached lines to Nara’s boat, so that the others could
haul it free. He told everybody to pole at once, and his plan seemed
certain of success, when Nara shrilled:
“Look back there!”
Native canoes had come around the bend. Seeing the flotilla stuck among
the sandbars, the tribesmen increased their paddle strokes. Nara grabbed
a rifle and shouted to Mr. Brewster:
“Get your boats clear! I’ll fight them off!”
“Keep going!” ordered Mr. Brewster. Then, to Nara, he called: “Don’t
start shooting! They outnumber us ten to one, and those spears of theirs
have poison tips. Once they start throwing them, we won’t have a
chance—”
It was too late. Joe Nara couldn’t be stopped, once his mind was made
up. He opened fire at the canoes when they reached the first sandbar.
Two dozen warriors rose to fling their deadly spears!