The Thirty Gang/Chapter 11

N THE long day that followed, little work was done at the paragua of Yaracuma. Every one talked. Some of the things that were said I understood, but most of them I did not. Yet I knew that the one thing every one talked about was the mad plan of Loco León.

It was easy to see that some of the men—especially the younger ones—were eager to go with me. The older men, though, who had women and children to think of, were not so reckless. If I had wanted them, no doubt I could have taken with me every fighter in the tribe; for, though the Maquiritares murdered at Quencua were not of the Cunucunuma, they were Maquiritares, and their torturers were hated by every one here.

My own two men, Frasco and Gil, were very sullen, and I could not blame them; they were comrades of the victims. But it now was a matter of personal pride with me to avenge every one of those deaths myself. Also, if I went alone I should have nobody else to think about, and so could direct my movements more easily.

Yaracuma himself, not being a fool, was well satisfied to let me go my way and do my best without aid, since that was what I desired. If I killed all my enemies, well and good; if not, he and his men might fight later on. So he saw to it that the making of the poison went forward—just where and how it was done I do not know, for it was made in some secret spot by the thin man—and he also ordered one of his best bowmen to give me any help needed with the arrows.

With this fellow to watch and correct my manner of holding the weapon, I practised for a time in the morning and improved my shots. The Indians took almost as keen an interest in this work as if I were actually shooting at a man instead of a stump; they were much more serious about it than I was, and every good hit brought a deep grunt from all around me.

When I tired of it, my assistant and half a dozen others went to inspecting the arrows I was to carry, testing the balance of each, examining them for straightness and strength, and throwing aside every one that did not suit their opinions. And I got out the roll of tabarí bark which I always carry up-river, and, with my pencil, printed on the thin sheets a message which would leave no doubt in the mind of the Butcher as to who visited him.

While I was doing this, squatting in the shade and keeping my eyes on my work, some one came and stood before me. At first I did not look up, for I was so much accustomed to being watched by the Indians that I hardly noticed it. But after a time a voice said, very softly—

"Loco!"

Then, lifting my eyes, I saw Nama.

She wanted to say something to me, but had not the words. Yet she gave me her meaning. She pointed to me, then toward Quencua, and shook her head. Then, pointing eastward, she said—

"Negro."

And she waved the pointing hand down along the river-line.

It was her way of telling me I must not go alone to Quencua, and that Black White would come down the Ventuari. I smiled and shook my head. Then, by signs, I showed that I was determined to go as I planned, and that Black White would not come; or, if he did, he would be too late. With that I resumed my pencil-work.

She tried to make me pay attention to something more, but I waved her aside. Then some of the men spoke gruffly—probably telling her she was meddling with matters in which a woman should not interfere. Slowly she went away.

Black White would come? I did not believe it. The raid of Bayona in the hills where White lived and the attack of Paco on the sitio of Loco León were far different matters. My affairs were nothing to him, especially when I asked no help and even forbade the Indians to tell him. I thought no more of it.

When my little messages were finished I tied one around each shaft with bush-cord. That ended my day's work. I left to the Indians the packing of the arrows into quivers and the selection of the bow, as well as the preparation of the poison. Only one thing remained for me to do, and that I did when Yaracuma was with me and nobody else happened to be near.

"Yaracuma," I said quietly, "I have told Frasco and Gil that they must stay here. They do not like it. They wish to go and fight. I ask my friend Yaracuma to watch them when I am gone, and to stop them if they try to follow me. When I shoot the arrows I shall not look to see the faces of the men I shoot at. I do not wish to strike down my friends by mistake. Let no man come after me."

"It shall be as Loco León says," he agreed.

So, with nothing more to be done, I did nothing but eat and sleep.

In the morning I found beside me a stout bow, a quiver with several arrows, a corded bundle of other five-foot shafts, and a large, light, round basket such as the Maquiritares use for packing on their backs yuca roots and other food. The basket seemed filled with flat cakes of cassava.

"All is ready," Yaracuma told me.

"There is cassava enough for six men," I grumbled. "It is far too much. And I see no poison."

He smiled and lifted the top cakes. Then I saw that they formed a lid, and that under them, in a green nest of leaves, were packed two gourd bottles. The necks of the bottles were short, wide, and tightly closed by wooden plugs.

"The basket holds life and death," he said. "Under the black juice is more cassava. There is a sling to carry a gourd. There is a new bow-cord also. All is here."

It was the best packing I had ever seen done by Indians. Before I could reach my foes I must eat, and so the cassava was placed ready at the top. Also, it would protect the poison from the hot sun during my journey. And the extra bow-cord, which I never should have thought of, might be useful in many ways.

"It is better not to carry the poison in the sling," he told me. "But the sling is there if wanted. You should leave the poison at some place after dipping the arrows. You must not let the poison touch your skin. You must handle the arrows carefully. The black juice is very hungry. It eats."

"It must be bad indeed," I said. I looked around for the thin man, but did not see him. "Where is the man who made the juice?"

"Why?"

"I should like to give him a knife."

"He is sick. He will be sick five days. No man can approach him."

"It is because he made the poison?"

"It is so."

I said no more. But I decided to be careful with that poison.

When I had eaten a good breakfast I swung up the basket, settled its strap across my forehead, and had the quiver and the extra arrows slung behind my shoulders. The basket was quite heavy, for cassava is solid food, and the poison-gourds were none too light. The arrows, though, weighed little, as the long shafts were of hollow cane.

With my thin hammock on the basket and my new bow and one arrow in my hands I left the paragua and headed southwest, toward Quencua.

Oso was nearer, but I did not go to Oso for two reasons. One was that I did not wish the brutes of Paco to search for me too close to Uaychamo, and thus, perhaps, discover the people of Yaracuma. The other was that I wanted to repay my enemies on the same ground where they had butchered and burned my Maquiritares. Moreover, the Quencua woods were better for my movements than those of Oso. And I was quite sure that the Oso men would go to Quencua as soon as they knew of what was taking place there.

So, leaving my rifle behind, I walked out into the sabana beyond the caño and began my journey of vengeance. To travel by the river was impossible, for that water was watched. Paco and his men must be cursing, I knew, because my canoe did not appear. They soon would curse for another reason.

All that day I walked. At night I slept without a fire among some trees beside a small stream. At sunrise I traveled on, and about noon I heard the roar of Quencua. Toward the fall I turned, and in another hour or so I was among the trees through which runs the only path around the fall.

In all the march I had seen no man, either ahead or behind. Now I became more guarded; for if any of the butchers were on their way up or down the river they must pass along that narrow track, a mile long, which connects the upper and lower ports of the Quencua raudal. I did not yet smear my arrow-heads with poison, but I made sure that those in the quiver were loose and easy to draw, and I carried one ready in my hand.

Soon I was in the path itself. The damp ground showed that men had passed within a day, going toward Oso. That was good; for it meant that at the lower end of the path must be waiting one of my canoes, in which those men or others above meant to journey down.

The problem of crossing the river had bothered me a little, for unless I could find a canoe it would mean swimming, and that would spoil my only food—the cassava. Now it would be easy.

I walked fast along the winding path, seeing no life but a few birds and a troop of marimundo monkeys. At the end I found the canoe, empty. From among some rocks I got an old paddle which, I remembered, had been thrown there some time ago by one of my men after half its blade split off. It now was partly eaten by ants and woodlice, but it would do. A few minutes later I was swinging around the first bend, heading for my destroyed sitio.

Now, the river at this point winds a good deal, and between the white water of the fall and the place where my house had stood were seven turns. I decided to journey past four of these and then to hide the canoe at a certain spot and finish my trip por tierra—by land. I kept close to shore, cutting across only to skirt the inside of each turn, and moving slowly as I rounded each curve. The first three bends showed me nothing ahead except empty water. But the fourth

I bore back so hard that the rotten paddle cracked. A few rods farther down, heading up-stream, was a canoe with three men.

Helped by a shore eddy, I got back unseen. But there was no cover for the canoe at that place; indeed, I was lucky even to meet a spot where I could scramble up the steep clay bank. I managed it, though, and when I reached the top I also had my bow, several arrows, and one gourd of the poison, which I had grabbed as if it were harmless as an empty calabash.

The canoe lay in plain sight, held by a snag.

In the bush at the top I wrenched the cork from the gourd and swiftly dipped four arrow-heads into the sticky black mess within. There was no time to be careful—I jabbed them in one by one, pulled them out, and arose ready to fight. A yard or two away was a small opening in the greenery, and at once I was there.

"Mira! Un curial!" cried a surprized voice. "Look! A canoe!"

The other canoe had come around the turn. All its men stared. I recognized every one of them—villains named Blas, Salomón, and Gaspar, more cruel than El Diablo himself. Looking at them, I saw my Maquiritares twisting and gasping in agony while the red knives of those men slowly cut off their fingers, and gouged out their eyes. And the red of that steel went into my own brain. I saw them in a fiery haze.

I do not just remember my movements for a minute or two. I do remember oaths, yells, gunshots, bullets smashing through the bush around me. Then their canoe was drifting back slowly in the current. Salomón was huddled up, motionless. Blas was trying to pull an arrow from his stomach. Gaspar had yanked another arrow from his right shoulder and was looking at it with eyes full of terror.

"Veneno! Poison!" he yelled. "It is black with poison! O Dios!"

Blas gave a choking moan and writhed on his seat.

"Los Indios, los Indios!" he gasped.

"Veneno!" repeated Gaspar, his voice more shrill. "It is fire—it is knives—it is vitriol!"

He threw the arrow down. Its point struck the gunwale and stuck there. Staggering, clutching his shoulder, yet he somehow spied the tabarí bark bound to the shaft. He dropped his hands and tore it off.

"Cien mil diablos!" he screeched. "It is not Indios! It is Loco León! Mira! Listen to the note on the arrow:

"Aquí está su billcie para el Infierno. Loco León."

"Loco León?" howled Blas. "Ah, ! They did not get him! Oh Cristo! What pain! This is the very fire of  in my bowels!"

Gaspar began to twist again. His knees gave way, and he fell into the bottom of the boat. Both of them squirmed and kicked and swore. They cursed me, they cursed Paco, they cursed themselves. They began to scream like madmen. And then the canoe faded out of sight around the turn.