The Thirty Gang/Chapter 12

HEN the noise of the dying brutes had become silence—as it soon did—I went back to my poison-gourd and stared down at it.

"Yaracuma spoke truth," I said to myself. "This is a poison fit for fiends."

For a minute I felt like throwing the infernal stuff into the river and continuing my war with unvenomed arrows. But then I saw again my tortured Maquiritares. So, instead of casting the gourd away, I plugged it, wrapped leaves around it, and slid down the bank as carefully as if I carried a bomb. Back in the curial, I laid the bundle down like an egg and looked myself over to make sure that none of the black poison had stuck to my clothing. Then I pushed out.

When I rounded the turn for the second time I saw no life. The other canoe still was in sight, drifting down ahead, but it now held only three corpses. Stroking carefully to avoid a complete collapse of the wrecked paddle, I headed for the hiding-place I had had in mind. Soon I was there. With the curial drawn into the narrow inlet and bushes bent down as a curtain behind it, I considered my next step.

The drifting death-boat soon would reach my old sitio, and the men remaining there undoubtedly would see it, take it in, and learn that Loco León was near. I had not intended to let them know this until I was in my own woods and ready to attack at my own time; but there was no help for it now, and the sooner I finished my journey the better.

By making a long swing through the sabana, first to the south and then back to the north, I could reach my woods from the rear with a good chance of avoiding any guards. And, once there, I might be able to do a little more work of vengeance that night. So I dipped a half-dozen arrows in the poison-pot, shouldered the rest of my equipment, and struck into the hills to the south. When I had passed through the tree-belt along the river and entered the open I had no cover except the little cerros, which meant a good deal of turning in order to keep from showing against the sky-line. Yet I made good speed, and not once did I meet men. And as sundown drew near I was at my own little caño and stealing northward among its trees. Just at dark I reached one of the little huts in which I had hidden my trade-goods before starting up the river.

Everything there was as I had left it. Whether the other two hiding-houses had been found I did not know, but this one evidently had not. Soon all grew black around me; but I used no light. Later on, I knew, there would be a moon.

While I rested and chewed cassava I kept my ears open to every sound. Nothing stirred, though, except the usual animal life. No voices came to me. If any guards were posted, they probably were at the river or at the big clearing where my house had stood, and where the gang now should be camping. No well-used paths were near this little hut, and it was hardly likely that men would stand all night in what seemed empty bush.

So, when the moon came and made things a little more visible, I started toward the river. The bush was not too thick for quiet travel if one moved slowly, and I took care to travel without noise. With me I carried the six arrows, freshly smeared, which had been in my left hand all the afternoon. They now hung in the quiver slanting across my back.

At length I reached the edge of the clearing. The moon now was well up, and the open space was quite light. I saw at once that my casa was gone, and so were two other palm houses where my Indians used to sleep; but one shelter still stood. It was an open-sided shed in which various belongings of mine had been kept. Now it was the sleeping-quarters of the gang. There I could see the vague curves of hammocks and the red spots of glowing cigarets, and hear growling voices. No guard was in sight.

Moving very carefully, I worked along the edge until I was as near the house as I could come without showing myself. It was near enough to hear what was said.

"Paco is a fool, and this proves it," somebody was grumbling. "‘Wait,' says Paco, 'and he will come t© be killed.' And we wait in this hole and feed the mosquitoes with our blood—caramba, I am an itch from hair to toes! And does he come? No! And while Paco sits on his rump at Oso the Indios walk in between and kill us. Phew! What a stench was Blas!"

"Si," said another man, "and Salómon too. And all three of them black as the Rio Negro. I would not have touched them or one of those arrows for a hundred pesos."

Several other voices grunted agreement. And thus I learned that the dead men must have been left to float on downward, carrying my arrows with them, and so nobody yet knew that I was near. That was good. But Paco himself, the man I most wanted, was not there, and that was not so good.

"I say again what I said before," rumbled a third voice, "that this thing was not done by Maquiritares. Those Indios use only curare, and no curare would bloat and burst men as that poison did. There must be other Indios here. Perhaps a few of those Guaharibo fiends who five east of the Padamo have come here on a raid. They must be few, or they would have taken the rifles from the curial."

A fourth broke out with curses upon all Indians.

"Snakes, all!" he swore. "Guaharibos or Maquiritares or whatever they may be, they are snakes. See what they did to Ramón Rodriguez. And those accursed Maquiritares we found here—would one of them talk? Would they tell where to find that dog of a León? Pah! They"

"We were too gentle with them," somebody interrupted. A chorus of cruel laughter followed. I grew hot and drew an arrow.

"Mira! What is that?" some one asked sharply. "Do you not see something move there?"

I stood perfectly still. There was a silence.

"There is something light, but it does not move. Moonlight on the leaves," another said then. "Nothing can come from the river without being seen. Miguel is on the watch. And no Indios would dare come so near us in the bush, knowing we are awake."

But another silence followed. Somebody stirred. A man came out, leaning forward and squinting, and stopped.

"It was not there a little while ago," I heard him muttering. "It is— Diablo! My gun, Lázaro! Quick!"

He spun on his heels. I let fly the arrow.

A shriek broke from him, and he stumbled, clutching at one leg. Like lightning I drew and shot two more arrows at the hammocks, where cigarets had suddenly dropped and rifle-clicks sounded. Then I threw myself sidewise and down.

I had not touched the ground when bullets were ripping over me. While I plunged forward on hands and knees, gripping my bow in one fist, more bullets crashed through the moving bushes. One stung my chin; another nipped my right thigh. But I got away. Nobody had the courage to rush at the bush and close with me, and the bullets did not quite find me. Perhaps the yells of the men I had hit—there were two, at least—helped me to escape.

"El veneno! The poison!" they screamed. "It is the black poison! O Santo Dios!"

Alarmed curses sounded from other men as the guns became still. The screams became louder and higher. I did not linger there, but those sounds followed me far into the tangle as I went.

"So," I said, "you who laughed a minute ago over your 'gentleness' to my faithful men now scream over a quicker death than they had. You yell now to God, do you? It is far too late for Him to listen to you."

And I worked onward under the moon toward my hut, feeling no pity for the howling cowards behind.

Yet, when I lay in my hammock and thought about it before falling asleep—which was not long, for I was very tired—I was not so well satisfied with my Indian way of fighting as I had thought I should be. To imagine those brutes dying in torment had been a joy, but to see and hear it was not quite so pleasant. And, though I told myself that this kind of death was no worse than they deserved, I felt more and more that I was not fighting as a white man should fight. The impulse to destroy that deadly mess in the gourds became stronger than it had been on the river.

In another way, too, I was not well pleased with the use of the bow and arrow. The bow was a clumsy thing to handle in the bush, and so was the long arrow. I could not crouch or lie flat and thus cover myself, as when using a rifle. And when I had been crawling for my life just now the bow had caught in vines and the arrows in leaves, hindering my movements.

An Indian would have handled them much more easily, of course; but I was no Indian. And I was learning that shooting at a stump outside a Maquiritare paragua and fighting live enemies in the woods were not the same. I wished I had brought my rifle; and I was glad that I still wore my revolver and poniard.

Then I went to sleep and forgot it all.

The next morning, though, while I ate, I looked at the gourds and gave up all thought of abandoning them. Now that I had begun this kind of war I must continue it; for, since my revolver was short of barrel and good only for close work, the arrow was the only weapon with which I could strike from any distance. And unless my figuring was wrong, I ought to be able to wipe out the rest of this Quencua gang today or tonight.

There were seventeen in all, the Indians had said. The Butcher, expecting me to come past Oso, would hardly leave more than half his force at Quencua—eight men. Yesterday I had killed at least half of those eight; in fact, I was almost sure of five deaths. Not more than three men, then, remained here. I would get them in the next few hours.

So, with fresh arrows, I slipped out again into the trees. Moving even more stealthily and slowly than last night, I went again to the clearing. Reaching it, I found nobody there.

I had not expected, of course, to see my enemies in plain sight. Warned by my messages, they would be hidden in the bush, watching and waiting for me to return. But, as I too waited, trying to spy some slight movement or catch some sound to indicate where those men might be, I felt more and more that the place was empty of human life. Birds came, some monkeys passed about, but the man-feeling—if you señores understand what I mean by that—was not in the air.

Yet I did not trust my senses. I would not believe the men were gone until I proved it. Moving with extreme care, keeping always covered, I circled the clearing. Then I became sure. Those last men had fled.

When I came out into the open and walked toward the sleeping-house I saw why they had gone. There, on the ground, were three horrible things which had been men. Those arrows which I had shot last night had done their work well. Whether all three had made hits, or whether one had missed and another had wounded two men, I could not know; but three corpses now lay under the hammocks. They were so frightful that I could not go near them. I hastily got back into the bush and left the place.

The last two men had not even dared to drag those bodies to the river and get them away from there. They themselves had gone instead, under the moon. Where? To Oso, no doubt, to tell their chief.

For a while I thought of following them to Oso, walking the sabana. Then I decided to wait for the Butcher to come to me. He probably would come with all speed.

So I traveled the bush to another of my hidden shelters, where I could find coffee and make a fire and have a better meal than for some time. Finding it undisturbed, I quickly cooked the coffee and drank until I could hold no more. Then I stretched myself and lay down on the supplies for a siesta.

"The luck of Loco León still holds good," I told myself. "Soon my account with El Carnicero will be closed, and then we shall have peace on the Ventuari."

Yet before sunset I was to feel that all luck had deserted me.