The Pathless Trail

  CHAPTER VII.

  COLD STEEL

  Some two hours after the start, while Knowlton and Tim loafed at thefore end of the cabin, enjoying the comparative coolness of the earlyday, another boat hove in sight up ahead--a longish craft manned byeight paddlers and without a cabin.

  As it came into view its bowman tossed his paddle in greeting. ThePeruvians ignored the salutation. The bowman, after shading his eyes andpeering at the flamboyant figure of Jose, resumed paddling withoutfurther ceremony, evidently intending to pass in silence. But then McKayarose, waved a hand, and told Jose to steer for the newcomers. Jose,with a slightly sour look, gave the signal to Francisco, and the coursechanged.

  The other canoe slowed and waited. Its men watched the tall figure ofMcKay. Tim and Knowlton scanned the bronzed faces of those men and likedthem at once. The paddlers evidently were Brazilians, but of a differenttype from the sluggish townsmen of Remate de Males--alert,active-looking fellows, steady of eye, honest of face, muscular ofarm--in all, a more clean-cut set of men than the Peruvians. All threeof the Americans noticed that no word was exchanged between the twocrews.

  "_Boa dia, amigos!_" spoke McKay. "Who are you and whence do you come?"

  "We are rubber workers of Coronel Nunes, senhor," the bowman answered,civilly. "We go to make a new camp. This land is a part of the_seringel_ of the coronel, and we left his headquarters yesterday."

  "Ah! Then the headquarters is above here?"

  "One more day's journey," the man nodded.

  "I thank you. Good fortune go with you."

  "And with you, senhor. May God protect you."

  With the words the Brazilian glanced along the line of Peruvian facesand his eyes narrowed. Though his words were only a respectful farewell,his expressive face indicated that McKay might be badly in need ofdivine protection at no distant date. As his paddle dipped and his mennodded their leave-taking, Francisco, the _popero_; sneered raucously:

  "Hah! Mere _caucheros_! Workers! Slaves!"

  And he spat at the Brazilian boat.

  Fire shot into the eyes of the bowman and his comrades. Their musclestensed.

  "Better be slaves--better be dogs--than Peruvian cutthroats!" oneretorted. "Go your way, and keep to your own side of the river."

  "We go where we will, and no misborn Brazilians can stop us," snarledFrancisco. To which he added obscene epithets directed againstBrazilians in general and the men of Coronel Nunes in particular.

  The unprovoked insults angered the Americans as well as the Brazilians.Knowlton leaped through the _toldo_ and confronted Francisco.

  "Shut your dirty mouth!" he blazed.

  For reply, the evil-eyed steersman spat at him the vilest name known toman.

  An instant later, his lips split, he sprawled dazedly on his platform,perilously close to the edge. Knowlton, the knuckles of his left fistbleeding from impact with the other's teeth, stood over him in whitefury. Francisco's right hand fumbled for his knife. Knowlton promptlystamped on that hand with a heavy boot heel.

  "Good eye, Looey!" rumbled Tim's voice at his back. "Boot him some morefor luck. Hey, you! Back up or I'll drill ye for keeps!" This to a pairof the Peruvian paddlers who had come scrambling through the cabin.

  After one searching stare into Tim's hard blue eyes and a glance at hisfist curled around the butt of his belt gun, the _bogas_ backed up. Amoment later they were thrown boldly into their own part of the boat byJose, who blistered them with the profanity of three languages at once.Then McKay came through and took charge.

  "That'll do, Tim! Same goes for you, Merry! Jose, I'll handle this. You,Francisco! Get up!"

  The curt commands struck like blows. Every man obeyed. And when thesquat steersman again stood up McKay went after him roughshod. In thecolloquial Spanish of Mexico and the Argentine, in the man talk ofAmerican army camps, he flayed that offender alive. Jose himself,efficient man handler though he was, stared at his captain in awe. AndFrancisco, though not given to cringing, skulked like a beaten dog whenthe verbal flagellation was finished.

  Turning then to the Brazilians, McKay formally apologized for theinsults to them.

  "It is nothing, senhor," coolly answered the bowman--though his glanceat the Peruvians said plainly that it would have been something but forthe swift punishment by the Americans. "Again I say--may God protectyou! Adeos!"

  The Brazilian boat glided away. The Peruvian craft crawled on upstreamin silence.

  When the next camp was made all apparently had forgotten the affair. Themen badgered one another as usual, though none mentioned Francisco'ssplit mouth; and Francisco, himself, albeit sulky, betrayed no sign ofenmity. After nightfall the regular camp-fire meeting was held and atthe usual time all turned in. One more night of listening to the soundsof the tropical wilderness seemed all that lay ahead of the secretsentinels.

  Sleep enveloped the huts. Snores and gurgles rose and fell. Tim himself,for the sake of effect, snored heartily at intervals, though his eyesnever closed. Through his mosquito bar he could see only vaguely, but heknew any man walking from the crew's quarters must cast a very visibleshadow across that net, and to him the shadow would be as good a warningas a clear view of the substance. But the hours crept on and no shadowcame.

  At length, however, a small sound reached his alert ear--a sounddifferent from the regular noises of the bush--a stealthy, creepingnoise like that of a big snake or a huge lizard. It came from the grounda few feet away, and it seemed to be gradually advancing toward his ownhammock. Whatever the creature was that made it, its method of progresswas not human, but reptilian. Puzzled, suspicious, yet doubtful, Timlifted the rear side of his net, on which no moonlight fell. Head out,he watched for the crawling thing to come close.

  It came, and for an instant he was in doubt as to its character, foraround it lay the deep shadow of some treetops which at that pointblocked off the moon. It inched along on its stomach, its black headseeming round and minus a face, its body broad but flat--a thing thatlooked to be a man but not a man. Then, pausing, it raised its head andpeered toward the hammock of Knowlton. With that movement Tim's doubtsvanished. The lifting of the head showed the face--the face ofFrancisco, the face of murder. In its teeth was clamped a bare knife.

  Forthwith Tim applied General Order Number Thirteen.

  In one bound he was outside his net, colliding with Knowlton, who awokeinstantly. In another he was beside the assassin, who, with a lightninggrab at the knife in his mouth, had started to spring up. Tim wasted notime in grappling or clinching. He kicked.

  His heavy boot, backed by the power of a hundred and ninety pounds ofbrawn, thudded into the Indian's chest. Francisco was hurled oversidewise on his back. Another kick crashed against his head above theear. He went limp.

  "Ye lousy snake!" grated Tim. "Crawlin' on yer belly to knife a sleepin'man, hey? Blast yer rotten heart--"

  "What's up?" barked McKay from his hammock.

  "Night attack, Cap. If ye're comin' out bring along yer gat. Hey, Looey,got yer gun on? Some o' these other guys might git gay. They're comin'now."

  True enough, the Peruvian gang was jumping from its hut. With anotherglance at the prostrate Francisco to make sure he was unconscious, Timwhirled to meet them, fist on gun.

  "Halt!" he roared. "First guy passin' this corner post gits shot. Backup!"

  The impact of his voice, the menace of his ready gun hand, the sight ofKnowlton and McKay leaping out with pistols drawn, stopped the rush atthe designated post. But swift hands dropped, and when they rose againthe moonlight glinted on cold steel.

  "Capitan, what happens here?" demanded Jose, ominously quiet.

  "Knife work," McKay replied, curtly. "Your man Francisco attempted tocreep in and murder Senor Knowlton. If you and the rest have similarintentions, now's your time to try. If not, put away those knives."

  "Knives! _Por Dios_, what do you mean?"

  "Look behind you."

  Jose looked. At once he snarled curses and commands. Slowly the knivessli
pped out of sight. The paddlers edged backward to their own shack,leaving their _puntero_ alone.

  "The capitan has it wrong," asserted Jose. "We awake to find our_popero_ being kicked in the head. We want to know why. If Francisco hasdone what you say I will deal with him. That I may be sure, allow me tolook."

  "Very well. Look."

  Jose advanced, stooped, studied the ground, the position of Francisco'sbody, the knife still clutched in the nerveless hand. Tim growlinglyvouchsafed a brief explanation of the incident. When Jose straightenedup, his mouth was a hard line and his eyes hot coals.

  "_Si. Es verdad._ To-morrow we shall have a new _popero_."

  With which he stooped again, grasped the prone man by the hair, draggedhim into the moonlit space between the huts, and flung him down. "Juan,bring water!" he ordered.

  One of the paddlers, looking queerly at him, did so. Jose deluged thesenseless man. Francisco, reviving, sat up and scowled about him. Hiseyes rested on the three Americans standing grimly ready, shoulder toshoulder, before their hut; veered to his mates bunched in sinistersilence beside their own quarters; shifted again to meet the balefulglare of Jose. His hand stole to his empty sheath.

  "Your knife, Francisco _mio_?" queried Jose, a menacing purr in histone. "I have it. It seems that you are in haste to use it. Too muchhaste, Francisco. But if you will stand instead of crawling as before,you may have your knife again--and use it, too."

  Francisco, staring sullenly up, seemed to read in the words more thanwas evident to the Americans. He lurched to his feet, staggered, caughthis balance, braced himself, stood waiting.

  "You know who commands here," Jose went on. "You disobey. You seek tostab in the night--"

  "Now or later--what is the difference?"

  "--and now the boat is too small for both of us." Jose ignored theinterruption. "Here is your knife. Now use it!"

  He flipped the weapon at the other, who caught it deftly. Jose droppedhis right hand to his waist. An instant later naked steel licked out atFrancisco's throat.

  The steersman's knife flashed up, caught the reaching blade, knocked itwith a scraping clink. For a few seconds the two weapons seemed weldedtogether, their owners each striving to bear down the other's wrist.Then they parted as the combatants sprang back.

  Jose side-stepped twice to his right. Francisco, turning to preserve hisguard, now had the light full in his face. But the moon rode so highthat the steersman's disadvantage was negligible, and the next assaultof the _puntero_ was blocked as before. And this time the wrist of the_popero_ proved a bit the better; he threw the attacking steel aside andstruck in a slashing sweep at his antagonist's stomach.

  A convulsive inward movement of the bowman's middle, coupled with aswift back-step, made the slash miss by a hair's breadth. With thequickness of light Jose was in again. His knife hand, still outstretchedsidewise, stopped with a light smack of flesh on flesh. Then it jerkedoutward. His steel now was red to the hilt.

  One more rapid step back, a keen glance at his opponent, and Jose stoodat ease. From Francisco burst a bubbling groan. He staggered. His knifedropped. His hands rose fumblingly toward his neck. Suddenly his kneesgave way and he toppled backward to the ground. The silvery moonlightdisclosed a dark flood welling from his severed jugular.

  With the utmost coolness Jose ran two fingers down his wet blade,snapped the fingers in air, and spoke to his crew:

  "As I said, we shall have a new _popero_. To-morrow, Julio, you willtake the platform."

  A rumble ran among the men. Their eyes lifted from Francisco to theAmericans, and in them shone a wolfish gleam. The bowman turned sharplyand faced them.

  "Who growls?" he rasped. "You, Julio?"

  "_Si, yo soy_," Julio answered, harshly, fingering his knife. "I will besteersman, but I steer downstream, not up. Francisco spoke the truth.Now or later--what is the difference? Let it be now!"

  A louder growl from the others followed his words. One stepped back intothe shadow of the hut.

  "_Perros amarillos!_ Yellow dogs! You go upstream, fools! The Americansmust be taken--"

  A raucous sneer from Julio interrupted him. Simultaneously the paddler'shand leaped upward, poising a knife.

  "The gringos stay here--and you, too, you Yanqui cur!"

  The poised knife hissed through the air at Jose.

  Out from the crew house shot a streak of fire and a smashing riflereport.

  Jose dodged, staggered, screeched in feline fury, the knife buried inhis left arm.

  McKay grunted suddenly, fell, lay still.

  "God!" yelled Tim. "Cap's gone! Clean 'em, Looey!"

  With the words he leaped aside and pulled his pistol, just as anotherrifle flare stabbed out from the other hut and a bullet whisked throughthe space where he had stood. An instant later he was pouring a streamof lead at the spot whence the burning powder had leaped.

  Knives flashing, teeth gleaming, the other paddlers charged across theten-foot space between the huts.

  Jose, his left arm helpless, but his deadly right hand still grippinghis knife, hurled himself on Julio, who had seized a machete fromsomewhere.

  Knowlton slammed a bullet between the eyes of the foremost _boga_, whopitched headlong. He swung the muzzle to the other man's chest--yankedat the trigger--got no response. The gun was jammed.

  With a triumphant snarl the blood-crazed Peruvian closed in, slashingfor the throat. Knowlton slipped aside, evaded the thrust, swung thepistol down hard on his assailant's head. The man reeled, thrust againblindly, missed. Knowlton crashed his dumb gun down again. It struckfair on the temple. The man collapsed.

  Tim was charging across the open at the crew house. Jose and Julio werelocked in a death grapple. No other living man, except Knowlton, stillstood upright. Stooping, he peered into the red-dyed face of McKay. Thenhe laid a hand on the captain's chest. Faint but regular, he felt theheart beating.

  "Thank God!" he breathed. With a wary eye on the battling Peruvians heswiftly raised the captain and put him into Tim's hammock. As he turnedback to the fight Tim emerged from the other hut, carrying a body, whichhe dropped and swiftly inspected. At the same moment the fight of Joseand Julio ended.

  With a choked scream Julio dropped, writhed, doubled up. Then he laystill. Jose, his face ghastly, stared around him. His mouth stretched ina terrible smile.

  "So this ends it," he croaked, his gaze dropping to Julio. "_Adios_,Julio! The machete is not--so good as the knife--unless one has--roomto--swing it--"

  He chuckled hoarsely and sank down.

  For an instant Knowlton hesitated, his glance going back and forthbetween McKay and Jose. Swiftly then he ran his finger tips over McKay'shead. With a murmur of satisfaction he turned from his comrade andhurried to the motionless bowman, over whom Tim now bent.

  "Bleedin' to death, Looey," informed Tim. "Ain't cut bad excep' thatarm. That flyin' knife must have got an artery. Can we pull him through?He's a good skate."

  "I'll try. You look after Cap. He's only knocked out--bullet creasedhim--"

  "Glory be! He's all right, huh? Sure I'll fix him up. Everybody elsedead? I got that guy in the bunk house--drilled him three times."

  "Look out for that fellow over there. Maybe I brained him, but I'm notsure."

  Knowlton was already down on his knees beside Jose, working fast to loopa tourniquet and stop the flow from the pierced arm. With a handkerchiefand his pistol barrel he shut off the pulsating stream.

  "Yeah, he's done," judged Tim, rising from the man whom Knowlton haddowned at last. "Skull's caved in. What 'd ye paste him with?"

  "Gun. Cursed thing stuck."

  "Uh-huh. Them automats are cranky. Say, lookit the mess Hozy made o'that guy Hooley-o."

  Knowlton glanced at Julio and whistled. Jose's oft-repeated threat todisembowel a refractory member of the crew had at last been literallyfulfilled.

  But the lieutenant had seen worse sights in the shell-torn trenches ofFrance, and now he kept his mind on his work. Wedging the gun to holdthe tou
rniquet tight, he lifted his patient from the red-smeared mud andbore him to the nearest hammock in the crew quarters. Striding back, hefound Tim alternately bathing McKay's head and giving him brandy. In amoment the captain's eyes opened.

  "Some bean ye got, Cap," congratulated Tim, vastly relieved at sight ofMcKay's gray stare. "Bullet bounced right off. Here, take anotherswaller. Attaboy! Hey, Looey, we better pack this crease o' Cap's, huh?She keeps leakin'."

  "Yep. Dip up the surgical kit. And give Jose a drink. I'll have to tiehis artery, too. How do you feel, old chap?"

  "Dizzy," McKay confessed. "What's happened?"

  "Lost our crew," was the laconic answer. "All gone west but Jose, andhe's bled white. We'll have to paddle our own canoe now."

  For a time after his head was bandaged McKay lay quiet, staring out atthe tiny battlefield and at his two mates working silently on thewounded arm of Jose. When they came back he spoke one word.

  "Schwandorf."

  "Yeah! He's the nigger in the woodpile, I bet my shirt. But why? What'shis lay, d'ye s'pose?"

  "Perhaps Jose knows," suggested Knowlton. "But he's in no shape to talknow. Let's see. Schwandorf said he was going to Iquitos?"

  "Yes, but that doesn't mean anything."

  "Probably not. Well, maybe Jose can explain."

  There were some things, however, which Jose could not have told if hewould, for he himself did not know them. One was that Schwandorf reallyhad gone to Iquitos, where was a radio station. Another was that fromthat radio station to Puerto Bermudez, thence over the Andes to thecoast, and northward to a New York address memorized from Knowlton'snotebook, already had gone this message:

  McKay expedition killed by Indians. Rand search most dangerous, but if empowered I attempt locate him for fifty thousand gold payable on safe delivery Rand at Manaos. Reply soon a possible.

  KARL SCHWANDORF.