CHAPTER II.
AT SUNDOWN
Past the loungers in the street, past others in the doorways, pastchildren and dogs and goats, the pair marched briskly to the faded bluehouse whence the federal superintendent ruled the town with tropicindolence. There they found a thin, fever-worn, gravely courteousgentleman awaiting them.
"Sit, senhores," he urged, with a languid wave of the hand towardchairs. "I am honored by your visit, as is all Remate de Males. In whatway can I serve you?"
The blond answered:
"We have come, sir, both for the pleasure of making your acquaintanceand for a little information. First permit me to introduce my friend Mr.Roderick McKay, lately a captain in the United States army. I amMeredith Knowlton. There is a third member of our party, Mr. TimothyRyan, who remained on the river bank to talk with--er--a soldier ofBrazil."
The federal official nodded, a slight smile in his eyes.
"We are here ostensibly for exploration," Knowlton continued, candidly,"but actually to find a certain man. I think it quite probable that weshall have to do considerable exploring before finding him."
"Ah," the other murmured, shrewdly. "It is a matter of police work,perhaps?"
"No--and yes. The man we seek is not wanted by the law, and yet he is.He has committed no crime, and so cannot be arrested. But the law wantshim badly because the settlement of a certain big estate hinges upon thequestion of whether he is alive or dead. If alive, he is heir to morethan a million. If not--the money goes elsewhere."
"Ah," repeated the official, thoughtfully.
"I might add," McKay broke in with a touch of stiffness, "that neither Inor either of my companions would profit in any way by this man's death.Quite the contrary."
"Ah," reiterated the other, his face clearing. "You are commissioned,perhaps, to find and produce this man."
"Exactly," Knowlton nodded. "From our own financial standpoint he isworth much more alive than dead. On the other hand, any absolute proofof his death--proof which would stand in a court of law--is worthsomething also. Our task is to produce either the man himself orindisputable proof that he no longer lives.
"The man's name is David Dawson Rand. If alive, he now is thirty-threeyears old. Height five feet nine. Weight about one hundred sixty. Hairdark, though not black. Eyes grayish green. Chief distinguishing marksare the green eyes, a broken nose--caused by being struck in the face bya baseball--and a patch of snow-white hair the size of a thumb ball, twoinches above the left ear. Accustomed to having his own way, not at allconsiderate of others. Yet not a bad fellow as men go--merely a manspoiled by too much mothering in boyhood and by the fact that he neverhad to work. This is he."
From a breast pocket he drew a small grain-leather notebook, from whichhe extracted an unmounted photograph. The superintendent looked into thepictured face of a full-cheeked, wide-mouthed, square-jawed man with aslightly blase expression and a half-cynical smile. After studying it aminute he nodded and handed it back.
"As you say, senhor, a man who never has had to work."
"Exactly. For five years this man has been regarded as dead. It was hishabit to start off suddenly for any place where his whims drew him,notifying nobody of his departure. But a few days later he would alwayswrite, cable, or telegraph his relatives, so that his generalwhereabouts would soon become known. On his last trip he sent a radiomessage from a steamer, out at sea, saying he was bound for Rio Janeiro.That was the last ever heard from him."
"Rio is far from here," suggested the Brazilian.
"Just so. We look for Rand at the headwaters of the Amazon, instead ofin Rio, because Rio yields no clew and because of one other thing whichI shall speak of presently.
"It has been learned that he reached Rio safely, but there his trailended. As he had several thousand dollars on his person, it wasconcluded that he was murdered for his money and his body disposed of.This belief has been held until quite recently, when a new book oftravel was published--_The Mother of Waters_, by Dwight Dexter, anexplorer of considerable reputation."
The Brazilian's brows lifted.
"Senhor Dexter? I remember Senhor Dexter. He stopped here for a shorttime, ill with fever. So he has published a book?"
"Yes. It deals mainly with his travels and observations in Peru, alongthe Maranon, Huallaga, and Ucayali. But it includes a short chapterregarding the Javary, and in that chapter occurs the following, which Ihave copied verbatim."
From the notebook he read:
"'It falls to the lot of the explorer at times to meet not only hithertounclassified species of fauna and flora, but also strange specimens ofthe _genus homo_. Such a creature came suddenly upon my camp one dayjust before a serious and well-nigh fatal attack of fever compelled meto relinquish my intention to proceed farther up the Javary.
"'While my Indian cook was preparing the afternoon meal, out from thedense jungle strode a bearded, shaggy-haired, painted white man, totallynude save for a narrow breechclout and a quiver containing several longhunting arrows. In one hand he carried a strong bow of really excellentworkmanship. This was his only weapon. He wore no ornament, unlessstreaks of brilliant red paint be considered ornaments. He was wild andsavage in appearance and manner as any cannibal Indian. Yet he wasindubitably white.
"'To my somewhat startled greeting he made no response. Neither did hespeak at any time during his unceremonious visit. Bolt upright, he stoodbeside my crude table until the Indian stolidly brought in my food.Then, without a by-your-leave, the wild man rapidly wolfed down theentire meal, feeding himself with one hand and holding his bow ready inthe other. Though I questioned him and sought to draw him intoconversation, he honored me with not so much as a grunt or a gesture.When the table was bare he stalked out again and vanished into the dimforest.
"'After he had gone my Indian urged that we leave the place at once. Theman, he said, was "The Raposa"--a word which denotes a species of wilddog sometimes found on the upper Amazon. He knew nothing of this"Raposa" except that he apparently belonged to a wild tribe living farback in the forest, perhaps allied with the cannibal Mayorunas, who werevery fierce; and that he appeared sometimes at Indian settlements,where, without ever speaking, he would help himself to the best food andthen leave. My man seemed to fear that now some great misfortune wouldcome to us unless we shifted our base. When the fever came upon me soonafterward, the superstitious fellow was convinced that the illness wasattributable directly to the visit of the human "wild dog."
"'Aside from the nudity and barbarism of the mysterious stranger,certain personal peculiarities struck me. One was that his eyes weregreen. Another was a streak of snow-white hair above one ear.Furthermore, the red paint on his body outlined his skeleton. His ribs,spine, arm- and leg-bones all were portrayed on his tanned skin by thosebrilliant red streaks. In this connection my Indian asserted that in thetribe to which "The Raposa" probably belonged it was the custom topreserve the bones of the dead and to paint them with this same red dye,after which the bones were hung up in the huts of the deceased insteadof being given burial. Beyond this my informant knew nothing of the "RedBone" people, except that to enter their country was death.'"
Knowlton returned the book to his pocket and carefully buttoned theflap.
"When that appeared," he continued, "efforts were made to get hold ofDexter, with the idea of showing him the photograph of the missing manand learning any additional details. Unfortunately, by the time the bookwas published Dexter had gone to Africa to seek a race of dwarfs said toexist in the Igidi Desert, and thus was totally out of reach. Then wewere called upon to follow up this clew and find the Raposa if possible.Men with green eyes and patches of white hair above one ear are notcommon. So, though our knowledge of this strange wild man is confined tothose few words of Dexter's, we are here to learn more of him and to gethim if we can."
He looked expectantly at the official. The latter, after staring outthrough the doorway for a time, shook his head slightly.
"Something of this Raposa and of those red
-streaked people has come tomy ears, senhores, but only as rumors," he said, slowly. "And one doesnot place great faith in rumors. Yet I have repeatedly been surprised tolearn, after dismissing a story as an empty Indian tale, that the talewas true.
"Of the Mayorunas more is known. They are eaters of human flesh,inhabiting both sides of the Javary, deadly when angered, and veryeasily angered. Their country is not many days distant from here, but asthey never attack us we do not attack them. It is an armed neutrality,as you senhores would say. True, we have to be careful in drinkingwater, for they sometimes poison the streams against real or imaginaryenemies, and the poisoned waters flow down to us, causing those whodrink it to die of a fever like the typhoid. Yet," and he smiled, "thereis a saying, is there not, that water is made not to drink, but to bathein?"
Knowlton laughed. McKay's eyes twinkled.
"I'm sorry to say that water's about all a fellow can get to drink inthe States now," the blond man said, ruefully. "That is, of course,unless a man knows where to go."
"_Si._ It is a pity. But here in Brazil one need not drink water unlesshe wishes, and often it is better not to. Of the Mayorunas, senhor--youdo not intend to go among them, seeking this wild man of the red bones?If you should do so it would be a matter of regret to me."
"Meaning that we should not come out again? That's a risk we have toface. We go wherever it is necessary."
"I am sorry. I regret also that I can give you no definite information.Yet I wish you all success, senhores, and a safe return. This much I cando and gladly will do: I can send word to another white man who now isin the town and who knows much of the upper river. He may be able toassist you, and without doubt will be eager to do so. He is staying atthe hotel, just below here--Senhor Schwandorf."
The eyes of the two Americans narrowed. The official coughed.
"Senhor McKay has been a soldier. And Senhor Knowlton--"
"I was a lieutenant."
"Ah! But the war has passed, senhores. Senhor Schwandorf was not asoldier of Germany--he has been in Brazil for more than six years."
"War's over. That's right," McKay agreed. "But don't bother to sendword. We'll find him if he's at the hotel. Going there ourselves. Gladto have met you, sir. Good luck!"
"And to you also luck, Capitao and Tenente," smiled the official. McKayand Knowlton strode out.
"Guess this is the hotel," hazarded McKay, glancing at a house whichrose slightly above the others. "I'll go in and charter rooms. You getTim and have somebody rustle our impedimenta up here."
He turned aside. Knowlton trudged on through the glare of sunset to theriver bank where Tim and the army of Remate de Males still loafed up anddown, the admired of all beholders.
"All right, Tim. We're moving to the hotel. No more war, I see."
"Lord love ye, no," grinned Tim. "Me and this feller are gittin' onfine. He's Joey--I forgit the rest of his names; he's got about a dozenmore and they sound like stones rattlin' around inside a can. But Joey'sa right guy. After me tour o' duty ends he's goin' to buy me a drink andmaybe introjuce me to a lady friend o' his. Want to join the party,Looey?"
"Not unless the ladies are better looking than these," laughed theex-lieutenant, moving his head toward the pipe-smoking females.
"Faith, I was thinkin' that same meself. Unless he can dig up somethin'fancier 'n what I see so far, I'd as soon have Mademoiselle."
"Who?"
"Mademoiselle of Armentieres. Sure, ye know that one, Looey. Goes to thetune o' 'Parley-Voo.'"
Wherewith he lifted up a foghorn voice and, much to the edification of"Joey" (whose name really was Joao) and the rest of Remate de Males,burst into song:
"Mademoiselle of Armenteers, Pa-a-arley-voo! She smoked our butts and bummed our beers, Pa-a-arley-voo! She had cockeyes and jackass ears And she hadn't been kissed for forty years, Rinkydinky-parley-voo!"
As his musical effort ended, out from the dense jungle hemming in thetown burst a hideous roaring howl. Again and again it sounded in ahorrible crash of noise.
"Holy Saint Pat!" gasped Tim, throwing his rifle to port and bracing hisfeet. "Now look what I went and done! Is that the echo, or a coupledozen jaggers all fightin' to oncet?"
"Guariba, Senhor Ree-ann," snickered Joao. "Not jaguars--no. Only onelittle guariba monkey. The howler."
"G'wan! Ye're kiddin'!"
"But no, _amigo_. It is as I tell you. One monkey. It is sunset, and thejungle awakes."
"My gosh! I'll say it does. Sounds like a Sat'day night row in a SecondAv'noo saloon, except there ain't no shootin'. Guess you boys have somenight life, too, even if ye are away back in the bush."
"Time for us to move, Tim," laughed Knowlton. "It'll be dark in no time.Joao, will you have our baggage moved to the hotel?"
"_Si_, senhor. _Immediatamente._ Antonio--Jorge--Rosario! And you, too,Meldo--_vem ca_! Carry the bundles of the gentlemen to the hotel,presto! Proceed, senhores. I, Joao d'Almeida Magalhaes Nabuco Pestana daFonseca, will remain here on guard until all your possessions have beentransported. Proceed without fear."