Seven days after the _Trunella_ swung southward from Callao Never-Fail
Blake, renewed as to habiliments and replenished as to pocket, embarked
on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro.
He watched the plunging bow as it crept southward. He saw the heat and
the gray sea-shimmer left behind him. He saw the days grow longer and the
nights grow colder. He saw the Straits passed and the northward journey
again begun. But he neither fretted nor complained of his fate.
After communicating by wireless with both Montevideo and Buenos Ayres and
verifying certain facts of which he seemed already assured, he continued
on his way to Rio. And over Rio he once more cast and pursed up his
gently interrogative net, gathering in the discomforting information that
Binhart had already relayed from that city to a Lloyd-Brazileiro steamer.
This steamer, he learned, was bound for Ignitos, ten thousand dreary
miles up the Amazon.
Five days later Blake followed in a Clyde-built freighter. When well up
the river he transferred to a rotten-timbered sidewheeler that had once
done duty on the Mississippi, and still again relayed from river boat to
river boat, move by move falling more and more behind his quarry.
The days merged into weeks, and the weeks into months. He suffered much
from the heat, but more from the bad food and the bad water. For the
first time in his life he found his body shaken with fever and was
compelled to use quinin in great quantities. The attacks of insects, of
insects that flew, that crawled, that tunneled beneath the skin, turned
life into a torment. His huge triple-terraced neck became raw with
countless wounds. But he did not stop by the way. His eyes became
oblivious of the tangled and overcrowded life about him, of the hectic
orchids and huge butterflies and the flaming birds-of-paradise, of the
echoing aisle ways between interwoven jungle growths, of the arching
aërial roofs of verdure and the shadowy hanging-gardens from which by day
parakeets chattered and monkeys screamed and by night ghostly armies of
fireflies glowed. He was no longer impressed by that world of fierce
appetites and fierce conflicts. He seemed to have attained to a secret
inner calm, to an obsessional impassivity across which the passing
calamities of existence only echoed. He merely recalled that he had been
compelled to eat of disagreeable things and face undesirable emergencies,
to drink of the severed water-vine, to partake of monkey-steak and
broiled parrot, to sleep in poisonous swamplands. His spirit, even with
the mournful cry of night birds in his ears, had been schooled into the
acceptance of a loneliness that to another might have seemed eternal and
unendurable.
By the time he had reached the Pacific coast his haggard hound’s eyes
were more haggard than ever. His skin hung loose on his great body, as
though a vampire bat had drained it of its blood. But to his own
appearance he gave scant thought. For new life came to him when he found
definite traces of Binhart. These traces he followed up, one by one,
until he found himself circling back eastward along the valley of the
Magdalena. And down the Magdalena he went, still sure of his quarry,
following him to Bogota, and on again from Bogota to Barranquilla, and on
to Savanilla, where he embarked on a Hamburg-American steamer for Limon.
At Limon it was not hard to pick up the lost trail. But Binhart’s
movements, after leaving that port, became a puzzle to the man who had
begun to pride himself on growing into knowledge of his adversary’s
inmost nature. For once Blake found himself uncertain as to the other’s
intentions. The fugitive now seemed possessed with an idea to get away
from the sea, to strike inland at any cost, as though water had grown a
thing of horror to him. He zigzagged from obscure village to village, as
though determined to keep away from all main-traveled avenues of traffic.
Yet, move as he might, it was merely a matter of time and care to follow
up the steps of a white man as distinctly individualized as Binhart.
This white man, it seemed, was at last giving way to the terror that must
have been haunting him for months past. His movements became feverish,
erratic, irrational. He traveled in strange directions and by strange
means, by bullock-cart, by burro, by dug-out, sometimes on foot and
sometimes on horseback. Sometimes he stayed over night at a
rubber-gatherers’ camp, sometimes he visited a banana plantation, bought
a fresh horse, and pushed on again. When he reached the Province of
Alajuela he made use of the narrow cattle passes, pressing on in a
northwesterly direction along the valleys of the San Juan and the San
Carlos River. A madness seemed to have seized him, a madness to make his
way northward, ever northward.
Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across
sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and
sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and _chigoes_,
sleeping in verminous hay-thatched huts of bamboo bound together with
bejuco-vine, mislead by lying natives and stolen from by peons, Blake day
by day and week by week fought his way after his enemy. When worn to
lightheadedness he drank _guaro_ and great quantities of black coffee;
when ill he ate quinin.
The mere act of pursuit had become automatic with him. He no longer
remembered why he was seeking out this man. He no longer remembered the
crime that lay at the root of that flight and pursuit. It was not often,
in fact, that his thoughts strayed back to his old life. When he did
think of it, it seemed only something too far away to remember, something
phantasmal, something belonging to another world. There were times when
all his journeying through steaming swamplands and forests of teak and
satinwood and over indigo lagoons and mountain-passes of moonlit
desolation seemed utterly and unfathomably foolish. But he fought back
such moods, as though they were a weakness. He let nothing deter him. He
stuck to his trail, instinctively, doggedly, relentlessly.
It was at Chalavia that a peon named Tico Viquez came to Blake with the
news of a white man lying ill of black-water fever in a native hut. For
so much gold, Tico Viquez intimated, he would lead the señor to the hut
in question.
Blake, who had no gold to spare, covered the startled peon with his
revolver and commanded Viquez to take him to that hut. There was that in
the white man’s face which caused the peon to remember that life was
sweet. He led the way through a reptilious swamp and into the fringe of a
nispero forest, where they came upon a hut with a roof of corrugated iron
and walls of wattled bamboo.
Blake, with his revolver in his hand and his guide held before him as a
human shield, cautiously approached the door of this hut, for he feared
treachery. Then, with equal caution, he peered through the narrow
doorway. He stood there for several moments, without moving.
Then he slipped his revolver back into his pocket and stepped into the
hut. For there, in one corner of it, lay Binhart. He lay on a bed made of
bull-hide stretched across a rough-timbered frame. Yet what Blake looked
down on seemed more a shriveled mummy of Binhart than the man himself. A
vague trouble took possession of the detective as he blinked calmly down
at the glazed and sunken eyes, the gaunt neck, the childishly helpless
body. He stood there, waiting until the man on the sagging bull-skin saw
him.
“Hello, Jim!” said the sick man, in little more than a whisper.
“Hello, Connie!” was the other’s answer. He picked up a palmetto frond
and fought away the flies. The uncleanness of the place turned his
stomach.
“What’s up, Connie?” he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow bed.
The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper
of some wounded amphibian.
“The jig’s up!” he said. The faint mockery of a smile wavered across the
painfully gaunt face. It reminded the other man of heat-lightning on a
dark skyline. “You got me, Jim. But it won’t do much good. I’m going to
cash in.”
“What makes you say that?” argued Blake, studying the lean figure. There
was a look of mild regret on his own sodden and haggard face. “What’s
wrong with you, anyway?”
The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he spoke
without looking at the other man.
“They said it was black-water fever. Then they said it was yellow-jack.
But I know it’s not. I think it’s typhoid, or swamp fever. It’s worse
than malaria. I dam’ near burn up every night. I get out of my head. I’ve
done that three nights. That’s why the niggers won’t come near me now!”
Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again.
“Then it’s a good thing I got up with you.”
The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy
into his line of vision.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m not going to let you die,” was Blake’s answer.
“You can’t help it, Jim! The jig’s up!”
“I’m going to get a litter and get you up out o’ this hell-hole of a
swamp,” announced Blake. “I’m going to have you carried up to the hills.
Then I’m going back to Chalavia to get a doctor o’ some kind. Then I’m
going to put you on your feet again!”
Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the heat-lightning
smile played about the hollow face again.
“It was some chase, Jim, wasn’t it?” he said, without looking at his
old-time enemy.
Blake stared down at him with his haggard hound’s eyes; there was no
answering smile on his heavy lips, now furzed with their grizzled growth
of hair. There seemed something ignominious in such an end, something
futile and self-frustrating. It was unjust. It left everything so
hideously incomplete. He revolted against it with a sullen and senseless
rage.
“By God, you’re not going to die!” declared the staring and sinewy-necked
man at the bedside. “I say you’re not going to die. I’m going to get you
out o’ here alive!”
A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart’s white face.
“Where to?” he asked, as he had asked once before. And his eyes remained
closed as he put the question.
“To the pen,” was the answer which rose to Blake’s lips. But he did not
utter the words. Instead, he rose impatiently to his feet. But the man on
the bed must have sensed that unspoken response, for he opened his eyes
and stared long and mournfully at his heavy-bodied enemy.
“You’ll never get me there!” he said, in little more than a whisper.
“Never!”