XI
IT WAS the morning of the third day after that when I started for the Caura—or, as it is called in its upper part, the Merevari. And when I left Uaunana, White had not prepared to go.
He had paid his two men, and paid them handsomely, with the trade goods bought from me at my caño. He had asked, too, about the route used in passing over the sierra and reaching the Caura, and had promised high pay to any four men who would go with him to the first settlement near the Orinoco. But he had not yet obtained the men, and seemed to be in no hurry about getting them. It would be a tough trip, he said, and he was well satisfied to rest a few days before starting it.
After what he had said to me about minding my own business, it certainly was nothing to me whether he started soon or late, or not at all. But, without letting him know it, I spoke quietly to Capitán Juancito urging him to see that good men were ready to go with the blanco whenever he felt like leaving.
Juancito coolly said any of his men who went would be good men; that he himself would not pick any crew for the traverse, but would let the men decide the matter for themselves. He reminded me that this blanco had caused the deaths of four out of six Uaunanans who had been with him, and said he would have no hand in sending out more of his people with such a man. Neither would he stop them from going if they wished to do so.
With that the matter was dropped. As I say, White did not know of this talk; for I said nothing to him about it, or about any other thing that was not strictly my own affair. I was taking him at his word and letting him “stand on his own two legs.” Whenever he wished to talk about anything I met him half-way. At other times I kept my mouth shut.
This did not mean, though, that I also shut my eyes and ears. I keep them open wherever I go. And I noticed that the wilful little Juana was giving a good deal of attention to the handsome blanco.
He was doing just what he said he would do—resting; and he spent a good half of each day lolling in his hammock, which hung beside mine in one of the open-sided but thick-roofed sheds, where we had plenty of air but were protected from the night rains which break suddenly in those hills. To this house Juana and other girls came now and then, standing near his hammock for half an hour at a time while Juana asked for the Spanish names of things he had which were new to her—clothing and mosquito-net and watch and cartridges and so on—or showed him how many words she already knew.
Yet I thought it was not so much her interest in new things as in the man himself that drew her there; and I was quite sure of it because she never asked me the same questions, though I knew Spanish much better than he. Indeed, she did not talk to me at all.
The capitán knew all this, of course, but he seemed not to mind. And, though it was a little unusual, there was nothing about it to worry him or any one else. Other girls always were with her, men were close at hand, every one who cared to look or listen could see and hear all, and after sundown she was within the walls of the tribe-house. If Juancito, knowing what he knew, had no objections to these talks it surely was not the place of Loco León to disapprove.
One thing which amused me was White’s fondness for the drink he had once refused to touch—yucuta assehi. As I have said, it is a very satisfying refreshment when one happens to like it; and now he liked it. He even made a joke of his first aversion to it. Whenever he wanted some of it he would say
“Well, Loco, will you join me in drinking another bucket of blood?”
The Maquiritares, too, always seemed to find it amusing to see him put away a gourdful of the stuff; and after he had asked for it two or three times they made a big potful of it at once, so that it should be ready whenever he wanted more. Every one seemed to like him well enough, and there was no good reason why they should not. He had not abused his men, and the only bad memory of him that they had was the affair of the Yabarano woman, for which he was not so much to blame.
So, knowing these people would treat him as a friend unless he gave them good reason to do otherwise, I left him there. With a couple of my former Padamo men and a light, new curial, I went away at sunrise. White and I shook hands and wished each other luck, and he tried to thank me for what I had done, but I cut him short.
“Es nada. Say no more about it. Vaya con Dios,” I said. And I went down the hill and out of the caño of Uaunana.
After about an hour of hard paddling against the current we swung into a small stream at the right, coming in from the south. When we had gone as far as we could among its rocks we tied the curial and took to our legs. And for several days after that we worked over and through the sierra dividing the Ventuari and Merevari countries. Then we reached a new paragua of the Maquiritares. There I found more men of the Padamo, and with them I visited for some days.
From there I went on to other new houses made by the people who had left the region where the Guaharibos now were, and in all I found welcome from men who had bled the balata for me during the last season. When at length I turned north again to the Ventuari I did not much care whether the people of my new river would work for me or not; for I had the promise of the Merevari Maquiritares that the coming of the heavy rains in May would find them on their way to my caño below the roaring falls of Quencua. The luck of Loco León, which has always been with me in matters of importance, still held good.
With the same two men who had gone out of the Caño Uaunana with me, I came back into it late on a day of showers. It had been more than a month since I left it. Idly I wondered how far from Bolívar the North American was now. If he had left this place within a week after my going—and it seemed hardly likely that he had stayed longer—he should be near the Orinoco, if not on it; for the journey from here to the Caura was a-matter of only a few days for the Maquiritares, and with the current behind him he should travel fast.
As on my first visit here, I found no other men on the caño or at the port. And, as then, I let the two Maquiritares go up the hill path first, though I did not wait this time for them to announce my coming—I followed close behind. We had almost reached the paragua when one of my men saw something which I had not noticed. Pointing, he spoke to me.
“El blanco est’ aquí,” he said. “The white is here.”
He was pointing at the open shelter where White and I had slept. There, true enough, still hung a hammock. It was not a Maquiritare hammock—theirs is always made of white cotton, while this was a yellow network of cumari palm-fiber, such as I myself use; a hammock made by the Guahibos of Colombia and sold here in Bolívar by traders, and the strongest and coolest bed one can buy. And the straight lines of tight-drawn cords and the big bulge in the middle showed some one was in it.
As I have said, it was late, and the sky was dark with more rain; so the light was dim. Noticing that the hammock showed no movement, I concluded that White was asleep, and passed on to the doorway where a few men stood watching us. Nobody else was in sight, and my stomach told me it was meal-time. Inside the house I found most of the bachelors eating, though some had finished and were in their hammocks. One slid through the bark wall, returning in a minute with Juancito. He promptly saw to it that I was given cassava and roast baquido, and until I had eaten little was said. Then I asked about White.
Yes, he still was here, I was told. He had spoken lately of going, and men were ready to journey with him to the Caura. But for a day or two he had been a little sick. It must be the fever. He had been very well until two nights ago, when the sickness came on him. Since then he had hardly been out of his hammock.
No, it did not seem to be serious, they said. Probably he would go in another day or two. He was in a bad temper be cause he had had to stay these two days. He had meant to leave two mornings ago.
These things I learned only by asking questions. They told me nothing unless I asked, and looked often at Juancito. He said nothing at all; but I thought his eyes looked a little hard. Nobody smiled, nobody made any joke about the blanco and the yucuta drink. I felt that Uaunana was weary of its visitor.
Asking no more, I said I was tired and would hang my hammock outside. And I walked out, finding that while I ate and talked it had grown very dark. But I knew my way about, and my matches were few, so I made no light. Working quietly, I slung the hammock where it had been before, opened my light blanket—the nights are cool in the hills—and, after taking off my alpargatas and loosening my belt, lay down. Then White awoke.
“Quien es?” he demanded.
“Loco León.”
“Oh. Back again? Glad to see you. Have a good trip?”
“Si. I hear you have been a little sick.”
“Yes, the luck!” he snarled. “Of all the dirty, rotten, low-down, lousy holes to be sick in— Say! Know what these stinking thieves did? Stole my mirror!”
I nearly laughed out. To lose so small a thing and be so savage about it struck me as funny. But I was not much pleased with his words about the people who had been so friendly to him, and presently I answered:
“I have seen much worse places to be sick in. These people are neither stinking nor lousy, as you say. And your little glass must have dropped somewhere.”
“It didn’t drop!” he half-shouted. “I had it here when I got the fever. Some sneak-thief swiped it when I didn’t know what was going on. That’s what gets me—robbing a sick man after he’s been a good fellow. To with the whole lousy pack of ’em!”
The Indians had spoken truly when they said his temper was bad. As for the little mirror, it might have been found and kept by some one of the children. I had no doubt that it would come back to him.
“Have they not taken care of you?” I asked.
“Oh, that little fool of a Juana has been pawing me over and giving me stuff,” he growled. “She’s a pest. I’m going to get out of here as quick as I can. I’m going tomorrow!”
“That is good, señor,” I said, humoring him. “You must be feeling better.”
“I do, some. I’m hot and weak, and I’m beginning to itch all over. But I’m better. Got to get a bath tomorrow. I haven’t had my clothes off since the fever hit me. Got any quinine or any other medicine?”
“Nothing. There is quinine at my caño below Quencua, but none here.”
“And I lost all my medical outfit at Salta Para. Well, I’ll be out of this hole soon.”
I made no answer to this. Instead I began talking of my journey to the Merevari, hoping to get his mind off himself. He listened, seeming interested, but I heard him turn and scratch repeatedly. It was very plain that, as he said, he itched all over. I wondered just what was the matter with him. But I did not let him know that I noticed it.
“What have you been doing to pass the time here?” I asked, ending my tale of travel.
“Oh, fooling around. Been hunting—got three tigres and a lot of other stuff—and hugging my hammock and—oh, just been a plain fool. I ought to have gotten out of here when you did.”
Something about his tone made me suspicious. In a joking way I asked—
“You have had no visitors after sunset?”
“What’s that to you?” he snapped.
“Nothing. I was only thinking of the Manapiare.”
There was a long silence.
“So you know about that,” he said slowly. “Well, I’ve never made any claims that my blood is ice-water.”
“Quite so,” I agreed. “You were speaking awhile ago about the ‘little fool of a Juana’ who is such a ‘pest,’ and so on.” There I paused.
“Oh, yes. She’s been interesting, but she’s grown tiresome. Anything else you’d like to know?”
“Nothing. Buen’ noche’.”
No more was said. I lay awhile thinking, and wondering how Juana had succeeded in fooling her father. But while men are men and girls are girls, there will always be ways for them to meet while older people sleep. White still lived, showing that no trouble had broken out. And now that he was going, all would be well. So I turned over and slept. The last thing I heard was White scratching.
A sudden startled curse roused me. Day had come again. White was sitting up in his hammock, staring at his hands. As I saw those hands and the face above them, I jumped as if hit by cold water.
The hands were smutted as if by soot. So was the face. So was the chest showing behind his unbuttoned shirt.
The beautiful skin which had made this man so handsome now was repulsive. It looked filthy. White was white in name only. He was no longer a blanco.