KENAIMA!
For the next three days the boat was worked steadily up the river;
paddled swiftly through long stretches of tranquil water; hauled up
falls; dragged through rapids and ever penetrated deeper and deeper
into the heart of the vast wilderness.
From time to time they had met Indians, sometimes individuals paddling
silently close to shore in tiny canoes of bark which Mr. Thorne said
were known as “wood skins”; sometimes families in big dugouts
accompanied by flea-bitten, woefully thin dogs, naked brown children
and all their household belongings, and once they had paddled up a
creek and had visited a large Indian village where the boys had found
a thousand things to interest them.
But while every Indian was questioned, few could give any information
in regard to the plane, although many had seen or heard it as it had
flown southward more than a week before.
Each day and every night too, the boys had listened at their radio
sets, but no more messages from the plane had been heard and all had
begun to think that the aircraft had departed and that the long
journey would prove fruitless. The boys, however, had had the time of
their lives. They had taken numerous trips into the bush with Joseph
and the other Indians. They had shot deer, wild turkeys, peccaries and
a tapir, while a splendid jaguar skin and two beautiful ocelot hides
were safely stowed among their belongings as trophies of their prowess
as hunters, and Rawlins treasured a huge snake skin from a twenty foot
anaconda that he had secured.
Much of Mr. Pauling’s time had been spent trying to decipher the
messages the boys had received from the plane and the “reds’”
confederate, for it was his boast that there never had been a secret
code which he could not interpret.
“I guess I’ve had my trouble for nothing,” he announced one afternoon.
“I’ve got it, but as I expected, it’s in some foreign tongue--Russian
most likely. Yet it doesn’t look exactly like Russian either. It’s not
German, but whatever it is, it’s no value to us now. Of course, we can
get it translated eventually, but I’d give a lot to know what it
says.”
“May I see it?” asked the explorer. “Possibly I may be able to
identify it, even if I can’t read it.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Pauling, handing him the sheet he had covered
with writing.
Mr. Thorne glanced at the paper. “Why, it’s Dutch!” he exclaimed.
“Here, Colcord, can you read this?”
The Boviander fished a pair of battered spectacles from his pocket,
adjusted them low on his nose and looking, as Tom said, as grave as if
he were about to preach a sermon, he peered at the writing.
“Yes, sir, Chief,” he declared after a minute’s study. “I ’spec’ I
can. I don’ comprehen’ Dutch too much, Chief; but I can tell yo’ what
it mean.”
“All right, what is it?” replied Mr. Pauling.
“This firs’ one say as how they need help,” declared the Boviander, as
he ran his blunt brown forefinger along the lines. “It say how they
bus’ up the apperatix an’ can’t fly an’ don’ have food.”
“By Jove!” cried Mr. Pauling. “That’s good! Machine disabled, eh? Good
for you, Colcord, we’ll get them yet. Go on, what’s next?”
The Boviander grinned and peered about over his spectacles vastly
pleased to find himself the center of interest and able to exhibit his
superior knowledge. Then, again studying the writing, he continued:
“I can’t ’lucidate all the words, Chief. But here ’bout it say
something ’bout the ship bein’ los’ and some fellow makin’ afraid for
to talk.”
“Jove! then they know the _Devon’s_ taken,” ejaculated Mr.
Henderson, “and whoever was talking has got cold feet and has quit.
That’s the reason we heard nothing more. Is there anything else,
Colcord?”
“Plenty else,” replied the captain, “but this specie of Dutch I don’
rightly know, Chief.”
“Well, by the great horn spoon, we’ve found out all we want to know!”
exclaimed Rawlins. “They’re here; they’re helpless--at least as far as
getting away is concerned--and they’re short of grub. By glory! my
hunch is working out O. K., I’ll say.”
Only two days’ travel now lay between them and the Maipurisi district
where the plane was supposed to be and as they gathered about the camp
fire that night, plans were discussed and formed as to their actions
and procedure when they neared the hiding place of the two fugitive
criminals.
“I think the best plan is to run up Unuko Creek,” said Mr. Thorne.
“It’s scarcely ten miles across from there to Maipurisi and we can
send a couple of the Bucks over to scout and report. Then, when we
locate the plane, we can go overland, surround them and call upon them
to surrender while we are hidden in the bush. As they can’t get off in
the plane and have no boat or canoe, they’ll be helpless.”
“Yes, that sounds like a good scheme,” agreed Mr. Pauling, “but can
you be sure your Indians will manage to keep out of sight? Moreover,
if by chance they were seen or captured, are you sure they would not
give away our presence?”
The explorer smiled. “If you’d ever seen one of these Indians stalk
game you would not ask the first question,” he replied. “Do you notice
that they always use small bore, muzzle-loading guns and double ‘B’
shot and yet they kill tapir and jaguar? They could only do that by
getting so close to their quarry that the light charge of shot acts
like a solid ball. In other words, they creep within a dozen feet of
the most wary creatures in the South American jungle and an Indian who
can do that could sneak into those fellows’ camp and be within arm’s
reach without being seen or heard. As for being captured, why there’s
no more chance than of capturing a ghost! And if by a miracle they
were seen why should those rascals ever suspect the Bucks knew
anything about them or us, or had any connection with officers whom
they probably imagine are hundreds of miles distant? No, don’t worry
on that score.”
At this moment a low, plaintive, long-drawn whistle was borne faintly
from the forest across the stream and instantly the Indians leaped up
and stood motionless, listening intently and peering apprehensively
across the river.
Once more, from the black depths of the jungle, came the mysterious
sound and hastily gathering up their half-finished meal, the Indians
came crowding close to the group of white men.
“Eh, eh, Joseph! Why makeum for ’fraid like so?” queried Mr. Thorne.
“What you sabby?”
Joseph turned fear-wide eyes and terrified features towards the
explorer. “Kenaima!” he exclaimed in a whisper.
Mr. Thorne whistled. “So that’s it!” he ejaculated. Then, turning to
the Indians, “No makeum ’fraid, Joseph! Kenaima no makeum walk this
side. No huntum you fellow Buckman same way!”
“Please tell us, what _does_ he mean?” begged Tom, utterly at a
loss to understand what had frightened the Indians or what the
explorer was talking about. “What _is_ a Kenaima?”
“The blood avenger,” replied Mr. Thorne in a low voice. “If an Indian
is killed, tribal law demands that his slayer must be destroyed, and
not only the assassin must pay the penalty but all his relatives as
well. The man chosen to wreak vengeance is the ‘Kenaima’ or, as the
Indians believe, a man in whom the spirit of vengeance takes up its
abode until its mission is accomplished. Until the Kenaima kills his
victim he cannot see or speak to any living being, but must live
alone, ever trailing the one he seeks until he has wreaked vengeance.
He may chose either one of two forms--the ‘tiger Kenaima’ or the snake
or ‘camudi Kenaima.’ If the former, he must strike down his man with a
short club, if the latter he must strangle him, but in either case he
must not kill his victim outright at once. Instead he must disable him
and then return three days later when the wounded man is put out of
his misery by the Kenaima driving a wooden spear through his body.
Then the avenger must lick the blood from the spear or--so they
believe--the spirit of vengeance will not leave and the Kenaima will
go mad, ranging the forests and killing all he meets.”
“Uugh! it makes me shiver,” cried Tom, edging closer to his father and
the fire.
“And I thought these Indians were peaceable!” exclaimed Frank as he
glanced nervously about.
“So they are--usually,” declared Mr. Thorne. “But they have their own
laws and customs and the Kenaima is one of them. Nothing can stamp it
out.”
“By glory, I’d hate to kill one of them!” exclaimed Rawlins. “But what
happens if the fellow gets away--reaches civilization for instance?”
“He never gets away,” the explorer informed him gravely. “The Kenaima
is tireless, relentless. If one is killed, another takes his place and
there are two deaths to avenge. Why, I’ve known a Kenaima to trail his
victim into Georgetown and strike him down on the street!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “And these Indians think there’s
one about, eh?”
“They think that whistle was one,” replied Mr. Thorne. “I can’t say,
but I know the Bucks claim the Kenaima warns friends to keep away by
uttering a whistling sound. He must not be seen and the Indians are
deathly afraid when they hear it. No power on earth could induce one
of these men to cross that river to-night or to enter the jungle over
there to-morrow.”
“Great Scott, I don’t blame ’em!” declared the diver. “Say, I wonder
who the poor devil is that he’s after!”
“Gosh I won’t be able to sleep to-night,” said Tom. “It makes my blood
run cold, just to think of it.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed his father. “Probably that whistle was merely a
night bird of some sort. These Indians are superstitious and imagine
all sorts of things. Besides, we have nothing to fear. None of us has
injured an Indian.”
But despite Mr. Pauling’s assurances and the fact that after a time
the Indians gradually drifted back to their own fire and crawled into
their hammocks, the boys tossed and remained wakeful for hours,
starting up at each unusual sound and listening with straining ears
for the uncanny, mysterious whistle. But it was not repeated and at
last, worn out and sleepy, the boys’ drowsiness overcame their nervous
fears and the gruesome blood avenger was forgotten in a dreamless
slumber.
With the bright sunshine of the following day it seemed very silly to
have been afraid of the supposed Kenaima and the boys discussed it
without the least shivery sensations running up and down their spines
as had been the case the night before. But they noticed that as the
boat left camp, the Indian paddlers kept close to shore and glanced
furtively across the river and that even Colcord seemed to feel
relieved when they reached a bend and the locality of the strange
whistling sound was left astern.
But even then the Indians acted strangely. Heretofore, they had
laughed and joked or had sung rollicking chanteys in unison to the
strokes of their paddles, but to-day they were quiet, talking together
in low tones, constantly edging the boat towards the center of the
river, despite Colcord’s efforts and commands, and plying their
paddles more vigorously than ever before.
“I believe there’s something afoot,” declared Mr. Thorne. “I’ve lived
a long time among these people and I’m convinced they have a sixth
sense--mental telepathy or something--by which they know intuitively
when there is danger near and I’m beginning to think that there may be
a Kenaima about.”
“Why don’t you ask them?” inquired Mr. Henderson.
“Torture wouldn’t force them to tell,” responded the explorer. “Even
to mention the avenger by name is considered dangerous--I’m surprised
that Joseph dared utter the word last night.”
“But if he’s only after one person, why should they he afraid?” asked
Frank. “They know he’s not after them.”
“Very true,” replied Mr. Thorne. “But they fear that he may not have
driven the spirit of vengeance from his body--if he’s killed his
man--and that being the case he is liable to kill and attack any one.”
“Hmm, uncomfortable sort of chap to have at large in the bush,”
commented Mr. Pauling. “Does that ever occur?”
“Yes, frequently,” said Mr. Thorne. “It may seem preposterous to us,
but the Indians believe so thoroughly in their superstitions that if a
Kenaima does not succeed in carrying out his entire purpose he goes
crazy and does run amuck.”
“Ah, I understand, sort of auto suggestion,” remarked Mr. Pauling.
It was now time to think of stopping for the noonday rest and lunch
and at Mr. Thome’s orders, Colcord headed the boat towards shore.
Instantly, the Indians stopped paddling, jabbered excitedly together
and then one of their number spoke vehemently to the Boviander in the
Akawoia tongue.
“He say they not goin’ make camp ashore, Chief,” announced Colcord.
“They boun’ for to make stop at a islan’.”
Mr. Thorne raised his eyebrows, “Oh, very well,” he replied. “It’s
just the same as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not taking any chances, I see,” laughed Mr. Henderson as the
mollified Indians again took up their paddles and headed for a small
barren island in midstream.
While Sam was cooking lunch, the two boys and Rawlins strolled about
the island, hunting for turtle eggs in the sand and amusing themselves
by chasing the big lizards that ran scuttling across the pebbles.
As they reached the upper end of the island, the river beyond a sharp
turn came in view and the boys called the diver’s attention to
hundreds of great black birds, wheeling and circling above the trees
half a mile distant.
Rawlins looked at them a moment. “They’re buzzards,” he announced.
“Vultures--wonder what they’ve found up there.”
“Gee, but there’s a bunch of them!” exclaimed Tom.
Then, at Sam’s shout, they hurried back to the boat and busied
themselves with their meal.
As the boat once more moved upstream and passed the island, the great
flock of buzzards still soared in the clear blue sky above the forest.
“What do you suppose they’ve found?” Frank inquired of the explorer.
“They were there when we walked about the island. Isn’t it funny they
don’t go down and eat if they’ve found a dead animal?”
“Possibly it’s a wounded creature,” replied Mr. Thorne. “They often
follow a sick or injured animal until it dies. Or again there may be a
king vulture there. The black rascals won’t dare touch carrion until
the king’s gorged himself.”
“King vulture!” exclaimed Tom. “What’s he?”
“It’s a large species of vulture--light colored--sort of creamy white
with red and blue head, and nearly as big as a condor. They always go
singly and if one of them alights near a carcass, the black vultures
keep off until he’s finished. That’s why they’re called king
vultures.”
“I’d like to see one,” declared Frank. “Let’s go over and see if he’s
there and what they’ve found.”
“Very well,” laughed Mr. Thorne, glad to humor the boys’ curiosity.
“Whatever it is, is near the river. Colcord, run over to that point
and we’ll have a look at what the buzzards are after.”
As the boat approached the spot, the boys saw that trees and rocks
were black with the loathsome birds which rose on flapping wings as
the craft touched the shore and the boys and the others sprang on to
the rocks.
Whatever had attracted the scavengers was evidently just within the
verge of forest and climbing the bank, Rawlins, who was in advance,
saw a huge white and black bird flap up from a clump of grass a few
yards away.
“There goes the old king!” he exclaimed.
Anxious to catch a glimpse of the great bird, the boys stopped and
craned their necks and the diver stepped forward towards the clump of
coarse grass.
The next instant a cry of mingled horror and surprise rang through the
forest and Rawlins, pale and with a strange expression on his face,
came hurrying back.
“Don’t go in there!” he cried. “Come on back to the boat, boys!”
“But what--what is it?” cried Tom. “What _did_ you see? You look
as if you’d seen a ghost!”
“Worse!” exclaimed the diver. “It’s a man! A man staked out--”
“A man!” yelled Frank and then, seized with sudden terror, the two
boys turned and fled headlong towards the boat.
“You mean there’s a human body in there?” demanded Mr. Pauling who,
attracted by Rawlins’ excited tones, had hurried forward. “Come on,
brace up, Rawlins! A dead man can’t hurt you! We can’t leave a human
being to be eaten by vultures.”
With a great effort, Rawlins recovered himself. “Guess it was the
shock of seeing him,” he declared, rather shamefacedly. “But by glory,
it is a rotten sight!”
“Rotten or not we’ll have to bury him,” declared Mr. Pauling. “He’s an
Indian I suppose.”
“Indian nothing!” cried Rawlins. “That’s the worst of it! It’s a white
man!”
“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling. “Who could it be?”
The next instant they had reached the thicket and at the sight which
greeted them, even Mr. Pauling, Mr. Henderson and the explorer drew
back filled with nauseating horror.
Stretched at full length upon the ground was the body of a man, with a
long staff of wood driven between his shoulders and pinning him to the
earth. And then, as they took a second glance, horror gave way to
amazement, for fringing the dead man’s face pressed against the forest
floor was a huge red beard!
“Jumping Jupiter, it’s he!” cried Rawlins. “Old Red Whiskers himself!”
“And killed by a Kenaima!” exclaimed Mr. Thorne.
“Jove, no wonder those Indians were nervous!” ejaculated Mr. Pauling.
“I’ll say they had reason to be!” declared Rawlins. “But what in
blazes started a Kenaima after this guy do you suppose?”
Mr. Thorne had stepped to the edge of the trees. “Come here, Colcord,”
he called, “and bring a couple of shovels along. Better bring Sam too.
No use trying to get one of the Bucks.”
But when the Boviander arrived, he took one glance at the body and
then, throwing down the shovels raced back to the boat. Too much
Indian blood flowed in his veins for him to approach a victim of the
Kenaima and as he reached the boat a low, terrified wail arose from
the throats of the Indians: “Kenaima! Kenaima! Kenaima!”
Leaping into the craft they seized their paddles.
“Come on!” shouted Mr. Thorne. “Run for your lives! They’re crazed
with fear! They’re going off!”
Shouting to Colcord and the Indians, the explorer tore down the bank
and across the rocks with the others at his heels. Already the boat
was several yards from land, but as he heard Mr. Thorne’s commands and
realized what he was doing, Colcord checked the boat, uttered sharp
orders to the Indians and with Sam’s help swung the boat ashore. The
four men and the boys leaped in and instantly the terrified Indians
dug their paddles into the stream and drove the boat madly from the
accursed spot.
“Too bad, but it can’t be helped,” muttered Mr. Thorne. “I hate to
leave him, but there’s nothing to be done.”
“Well, he’s tossed many a poor devil to the sharks!” exclaimed
Rawlins. “So I guess it kind of evens up things. But by glory, I’d
like to know where his mate is.”