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110 Wondering what he had found, I went across the little open plaza-like space in the centre of the village and walked back of the big house as Pembroke called the council-house. I didn’t have to hunt to find the “dingus.” And I was interested. As Pembroke had said it looked a bit like organ pipes—three big wooden cylinders, the largest twenty feet long and a foot in diameter, the ones next to it a little shorter and smaller and the third about six feet in length. The three big tubes were bound together with lianas (vines) and rested horizontally on a wooden framework. Of course you have guessed what the thing was—a gigantic Pan’s pipes, and that’s what I took it to be, at first. But it was a lot more than that. Inside the ends that pointed towards the plaza, were a lot of criss-crossed strings, and at the other end of the contrivance—where a Pan’s pipes would have mouth pieces—there was a queer arrangement of wood, like some sort of a drum with three bamboos leading from it into the big pipes. I was examining the thing, when I happened to look up, and found there were Indians all around watching me. And they didn’t look pleased or friendly either. Well, I hadn’t touched the thing, and thank God I hadn’t, so there was no harm done. But evidently the thing was taboo to me—probably some religious or ceremonial object I decided—so I gave the chief some empty pistol cartridges I had in my pockets and walked away, and felt the incident was closed. I guess perhaps it would have been at that, if Matson had behaved himself. But he was one of those fools who always want to show off before other men and impress them. And the Xinguay chicha (fermented drink) was pretty strong and Matson had taken a lot of it. He was hilarious, he was laughing boisterously, and I was worried. “I think we’d better get out of here before we have any trouble.” I told Pembroke, “Matson’s half drunk and he’s as dangerous as a spark in a keg of gunpowder when in that condition. Better suggest it’s time we should leave.” And as I didn’t want to start trouble I kept in the background.

“All right, he says to tell the Indians to bring in all the food they have,” Pembroke told me after he had talked with Matson. “When we’ve taken what we want we'll be off.”

“I won’t,” I told him flatly, “That is, unless Matson agrees to give them something in return. “You can tell him that’s final.”

Matson jumped to his feet when Pembroke delivered my ultimatum. For the first time in days—and for the last time forever—he spoke to me directly.

“Damn you!” he shouted, “Think you’ll stop me that way, do you? Well, I do my business my own way. If these beggars don’t bring in the grub I’ll take it. I take what I want when I want it; see? Come on, boys!”

I don’t know whether the others were cowed and afraid of Matson, or whether they thought they must do as he told them. But they followed him blindly, always. I knew if he began raiding the village that there would be trouble, and hurrying to the chief I tried to explain that Matson and the others wanted food for their journey. He turned and gave some order to the other Indians, and they hurried off. Then I yelled to Pembroke to tell Matson that I had told the chief, and to come back and wait for the people to bring provisions.

UT it was too late. Matson had pushed his way into the first house. I heard shrill cries from inside the hut—women’s cries, I thought. Then Matson’s guffaw and a curse. Almost at the same instant I heard a strange, low toned, throbbing sound—like the distant booming of a drum. I couldn’t seem to place it. It sounded far off, yet it seemed to be near, and I could feel its pulsation rather than hear them. And it appeared to come from all sides. I turned to ask one of the Indians what it was, but there wasn’t an Indian in sight. All this happened in an instant, you understand—the woman’s cry, Matson’s laugh and curse, the strange throb which was growing louder and stronger like the roar of an approaching airplane. The others must have heard it, too, for they had all halted, standing in the open space in the centre of the village, looking about, listening.

The next instant Matson came staggering from the hut carrying a big basket in one hand and dragging a young girl with the other. “Go ahead, help yourselves, boys!” he shouted. “Plenty of grub for the takin’, an’ girls if you want ’em. Cheer us up on our trip. Come”

As if conjured by magic a weird, terrifying figure appeared from somewhere—a figure wearing a horrible, grotesque mask and clad from head to foot in a cloak-like garment of leaves, bark and feathers. With upraised stabbing spear he rushed straight at Matson. With a single, swift motion, Matson dropped the basket of food, whipped out his revolver and fired from his hip. The masked figure spun around and crashed to the ground. Matson glared about, smoking pistol still in his hand. “Try to stick me, will you!” he shouted. “Come on, try it, you devils.” Turning to the struggling, screaming girl he dealt her a vicious blow with his revolver barrel. She collapsed senseless, and her captor kicked her aside. All this time—it had been but a few brief moments—I was aware of that pulsating, throbbing roar, each second increasing in volume, until the air seemed vibrant with it. There was something indescribably menacing in the sound—like the warning humming of angry bees. Meanwhile, the girl regaining consciousness dashed for safety into the bush; at this action there was a new note.

H, my God, how can I describe it! It came like the shriek of a lost soul, like the wail of a tortured spirit. It was as if all the fiends of hell were screaming for vengeance. It was as if the very heavens