Tupahn--the Thunderstorm/Chapter 2

OON found us ashore, joking as we ate, but a little troubled in mind. We were squatting on a shady point, and at each side of us the water swerved away in a different direction. The creek had split.

Part of it veered off to the northeast, the rest to the northwest; and there was nothing to indicate which of the two new creeks we ought to follow. As the water was low, one of them ought to be dried up; but both looked to be of about the same depth and width. And the girl, when asked whether she remembered the joining of the streams here, did not.

“Makes no difference anyhow,” argued Senhor Tom. “Both of them are bound to flow into the Amazon, and that's where we're heading for.”

“True,” I said. “We head for the Amazon, but we also seek a certain place on the Amazon. One of these streams will take us there quickly. The other may wind about for many miles before reaching the great river, and then bring us out far from where we want to go. And”

There I stopped, not wishing to mention before the girl that we had not much food. But my comrades understood.

“Quite so,” the blond man assented. “Well, we'll have to trust to luck. Unless you fellows have an idea on the subject I'll flip a coin before we start. Meanwhile let's smoke and—Miss Marshall, show me your hands!”

Surprized by the sudden command, she held them out, palms down. He turned them over. Swiftly she tried to snatch them away. But he held them firmly a minute before letting go.

“Thought so,” he nodded. “Blistered. Now I'll have to do all the paddling.”

“Indeed you will not,” she retorted. “A little blister is nothing”

“No, a little blister is nothing,” he cut in. “But seven big blisters are something. You have four on your right palm and three on your left. All caused by trying to be smart and outpaddle us. You should know better.”

Her chin rose a little, but after an instant's search of his eyes she smiled.

“I'm sorry,” she said simply. “I thought I was helping, and now I have only made myself a hindrance. But these canoes are heavier than those at home, and”

“And you haven't paddled for a long time and your hands are out of training,” Senhor Tom nodded. “You're forgiven. And you're a good sport to try to hold up your end, I'll say—and a good paddler besides. Where did you learn to push a canoe?”

“Oh, I spent several Summers in girls' camps when I was in school. And I have a couple of big brothers who are quite active outdoor men: one played end on the Princeton football team and sprinted for the track team, and the other stroked the Yale crew in his senior year. We-were always doing stunts when we were youngsters—I was a perfect tomboy myself in those days.”

“Ah, that explains a lot,” the blond man declared. “If all girls had a couple of regular fellows for brothers maybe they'd be more human. As it is, most of 'em are bum sports—either touch-me-nots or kiss-me-quicks, and ready to throw a fit if they have to do any real work.”

She smiled again, but it was a mischievous smile this time.

“And that, perhaps, is why you bury yourself in the jungle?”

“Huh? Me? 'Stricken to the heart, he sought the sighing solitudes to forget?' Not Tom Mack, my lady. I'm here because I don't like starched collars and subways and fat-headed office tyrants and the rest of the stuff the city slaves have to stand for. Thats all they are—slaves! Slaves to their bosses—slaves to business—slaves to pork-barrel politicians—slaves to selfish wives—bah! Ninety-nine per cent. of the men up home make me sick, and as for the women”

“Grrr! Woof-woof!” she mocked. “Pedro and Lourengo, does he bite? His eyes are growing red, and I'm terribly scared.”

“Have no fear, senhorita,” my handsome partner laughed. “We are watching him, and when he begins to froth we shall knock him in the head.”

“And you'll have some job doing it, my merry men,” Senhor Tom grinned. “Beg pardon for starting an oration, Miss Marshall. But I assure you I'm no lovesick calf driven from home by a hopeless passion—or by anything else, for that matter. Old Patrick Henry said it. 'Give me liberty or give me death.' Them's my sentiments, and the only sentiments I've got. Let's go.”

He rose, looked at both of those puzzling streams, drew a coin from his pocket, and glanced inquiringly at us. We nodded.

“Heads to the right, tails to the left,” he said, and flipped the silver disc. I caught it.

“We go to the right,” I told him, handing back the coin. “That is where chance directs us.”

“Right's right,” he answered. His eyes went again to the girl, who was watching him with an amused expression. “Now, Miss Marshall, we'll just open those blisters of yours and then bandage your hands. After that you'll ride at leisure for the rest of the day.”

“But I'm going to paddle,” she protested.

“And ruin your hands completely. No, you'll rest them until tomorrow—or later.”

Her chin rose again. It was very clear that she had no intention of riding in idleness. But nothing more was said until the hands were bandaged. Then, after a keen look into her stubborn face, Senhor Tom spoke again in a cool but determined tone.

“With all due respect, Miss Marshall, I must remind you that I am the captain of my own canoe. The captain of any craft is the supreme authority on questions of the handling of that craft. I hereby order Tom Mack to paddle this canoe unaided until sundown or thereabouts. That is final.”

His eyes twinkled a little as he spoke, but his jaw was firm. They stood for a minute looking steadily at each other. Then she smiled again.

“Aye, aye, sir,” she answered. And she stepped into her place at the bow and settled herself comfortably—with her back to him. We grinned at him, got into our own dugout, and shoved off along the might-hand stream.

LL through the afternoon we swung steadily down that winding creek. And all the time there grew on me a feeling that we went wrong.

Why I felt so I can not say. It was not because the stream seemed to bear more and more to the northeast—we had no way of knowing just where Viciado lay, for we were passing through an unmapped region and might be heading directly toward the town. There was no reason at all for my misgiving, except this: Somehow, when a man has roved much in the wilderness, he comes to feel that certain ways are the best to travel, even if he can not explain why. Perhaps it is the sense of direction which the birds and the beasts have, which draws them without fail to their nests or dens after long heedless journeys after food. At any rate, that afternoon something seemed to keep telling me that we were going astray.

Pedro too felt the warning. Once he looked back at me and shook his head. But we kept on; for neither of us, once started on a path on water or land, liked to return over it and begin anew. The pair behind us said nothing whatever to us or to each other. And so we put the slow miles behind us until the shadows grew long.

Then, on the right shore, we found a little cove, at the end of which rose a slope topped by big trees. The slanting sun-rays, shooting in among the tall trunks, showed that no undergrowth was there to hinder us and to harbor carrapatos or other insect pests, and that a clear little brook trickled into the creek along a groove in the clay. We turned into the cove, climbed the slope, and made camp.

“Now that your order has been obeyed, captain,” the girl smiled, “is your fragile passenger permitted to break the monotony by cooking the evening meal? Or must she still be little Miss Muffet and sit uselessly on a tuffet?”

“Why, since you've recovered the power of speech, you may cook if you like,” Senhor Tom granted. “You've been dumb ever since noon.”

“That was because you enforced ship's rules, captain. I believe one of the rules is that passengers mustn't talk to the steersman. So, not wanting to be thrown to the sharks, I had to hold my tongue.”

“Tough, very,” he laughed. “Hereafter you may talk as much as you like—unless you blister your tongue too. But speaking of cooking”

He glanced at us.

“We shall try to find something to cook,” Pedro responded. “Why eat our dried rations if we can have fresh meat? Wait a while, senhorita.”

And we took our guns and slipped away into the forest.

Soon, somewhere off to the left, we heard low grunting sounds. Stealthily we crept that way, slipping around the big tree-butts, avoiding dry fallen limbs and other forest litter, making hardly a sound with our bare feet. The grunting became plainer. Then, peering over the edge of a root-buttress, we saw near us a couple of peccaries.

Our guns roared almost together. The pigs dropped. One lay still. The other kicked several times and squealed shrilly. Then it became motionless.

Before the second animal was quiet we had reached the pair, ready to shoot again if another bullet was needed. As the wild pig stopped screaming we lowered our rifles, drew our machetes, and cut out the scent-pouches from their loins in order to keep the meat sweet. As we sheathed the long knives again we started and whirled.

A rush of feet sounded near by. More grunts and squeals—many more—blended into a chorus of rage. Between the trees came a whole herd of peccaries, charging to aid their stricken mates. In the half-light their little eyes seemed to glow green with fury.

We fired one shot each and then jumped for safety. We knew peccaries too well to attempt to fight off a big band of them. Beside us loomed a tree corded thickly with big vines, and up those vines we went like a couple of treed jaguars. And we went none too soon.

Under us the maddened beasts jammed into a heaving mass, squealing and clashing their keen little tusks and watching us in hate. Some even stood up on their hind legs against the trunk, their teeth grinning at us like the jaws of death. And jaws of death they would have been if either of us had slipped or lost his hold on the treacherous vines. But we did not climb far and thus increase the risk of falling. We clung quietly a few feet above their heads and waited for them to go.

For some time we hung there, and still they stayed. They quieted somewhat, but those wicked eyes of theirs remained fixed on us. Our hands and toes, hooked over our shaky support, grew tired. I began to think of tales I had heard of peccaries waiting for days for men to fall from trees into their power. I never had seen such a thing myself, but—we certainly could not hold on there all night, and the pigs certainly were waiting. We commenced studying our surroundings.

“There is our chance,” Pedro said, moving his head upward. Then I saw that against our tree-trunk leaned a smaller one which at some time had fallen part of the way to the ground but had become lodged against a big bole above us. It did not look like a safe perch—indeed, it was likely to crash the rest of the way groundward if we put our combined weight on it—but we must go somewhere soon, and we had nowhere else to go. So, very carefully, we climbed toward it.

When we reached it our hands were so tired that we had hard work in getting up and on it. And when we were on it we found it so trembly that we dared not try to crawl down its long slant to the ground. It needed only a little more quivering to make it slip off the bole and smash with us among the peccaries, who would surely finish us if the fall did not. But we could stretch ourselves along its leaning trunk and rest our exhausted muscles, and we did so. Meanwhile we looked down once more at the pigs.

They were moving about in a disappointed, ugly fashion, grunting but no longer squealing. Stretched along the tree as we were, our bodies were hidden from them, and probably their eyes were not good enough to make out our heads. So, as we climbed up and disappeared, there was no good reason for them to remain longer. Resting and keeping quiet, we waited again for them to depart.

Then, back at our camp, sounded a single shot. We listened, but heard no more firing. Nor did we hear any other sound but the noises of the beasts under us.

“Senhor Tom has beaten us in getting meat,” Pedro“ grumbled. “Probably a monkey came along. Curse these pigs! Will they ever go?”

They did not go at once, but after a time some of them wandered off. Others followed. Soon all but a few had faded away among the tall roots. Then the last ones, seeming suddenly afraid to be left behind, broke into a run and were gone. Below us nothing remained but our guns, now trampled and foul, and the two dead.

We waited a few minutes longer to make sure they were well away. Then, with great care, I let myself over the trunk and grasped the twining vines by which we had come up. Pedro followed, not quite so carefully. He had just placed his toes and one hand on the vines when he slipped.

I caught him with one hand and shoved him back against the trunk. For an instant it seemed that my own hold would break and we both would go down. But he caught his balance again and clung to the vines with feet and hands like a monkey. While we were struggling we heard a grinding squeak, a rushing sound, a crash, and a heavy thump. Now we glanced downward. Below us lay the tree on which we had just rested.

“A close shave, comrade,” said Pedro. “It fell just as I got off. That was why I slipped.”

Down the trunk we worked our way until we stood safe on solid earth. There we wiped the sweat from our faces, breathed deep, picked up our rifles, shouldered a pig apiece, and turned toward the creek.

HEN came night.

Darkness swiftly blotted out all but the nearest trunks. Thankful that we had only a short distance to go, we felt our way toward camp. Before long we began to look for the glint of the-evening fire among the trees and to sniff for the smell of wood-smoke. But we saw no light, smelt nothing but the damp forest, heard no voices among the night sounds of the wilderness.

We began to hurry. We felt sure that we were going in the right direction, sure that the blurring dark had not confused us, sure that we were almost at the camp. And we remembered that shot.

All at once we stopped. Two strides from us loomed the little tambo we had thrown up for our night's shelter. But no fire burned before it. Nothing moved, nothing spoke.

“Senhor Tom!”' I called softly.

No answer came.

“Senhorita!” cried Pedro.

No reply.

We dropped our game and lighted matches. The tambo was empty of life.

With more matches glimmering, we moved across the small open space. We walked straight into the kindlings of a fire, carefully laid but unlighted. In a moment we had them ablaze.

As the light grew we circled about, fear growing in our hearts. What had happened to our North American comrades? Surely they had not deserted us.

Then Pedro made a harsh sound and dropped on his knees beside a high-rooted tree. Another match flared. As I stooped beside him we looked down at Senhor Tom.

Face down he lay, silent and still. His hat was off, and his blond hair was now red—deep, wet red.

He had been shot in the head.