VI
“IT’S just a hard-luck story,” said White. “Things have been coming rather rough.
“We went up the Caura until we got smashed in a mess of rocks and white water—a raudal, as you fellows call ’em. Those Bolívar fellows insisted they could drive the launch through it, but they couldn’t. She went back and wrecked herself, and two of the five men went under and stayed under. The rest of us got her off and drifted down with her into smooth water, and we managed to save most of the stuff aboard. We never found the two chaps that drowned. Maybe the crocs down below got ’em.
“Well, then we got canoes and Indians at a place higher up—there’s quite an Indian settlement there, and I stayed there a few days getting dope about the balata and bean country. Then we went along, with Indian guides, until we hit a fierce place where the river does a big tumble; it drops about two hundred feet, I should say, and they call it Salta Para. Know where that is? All right.
“We packed our stuff up around this big fall, and were to go in canoes those Indians keep above it. Got everything packed fine and slept on the bank that night, ready for an early break the next morning. But in the night it rained cats and dogs, and in the morning the river was away up.
“I thought we’d better wait awhile, and so did the Indians. But that know-it-all Bolívar bunch swore we could go on right away, and I let ’em try to prove it. They and the Indians got into the canoes and cast off, while I walked along shore a bit to see how they made out. I was afraid of that river just then, and I’m not ashamed to say so.
“They began making headway all right, and I was just about deciding I’d chance it, when I noticed they were getting farther out all the time. I yelled at them, but they didn’t hear—the falls made a fearful noise down below. Then they woke up to the fact that a current had caught ’em, and they worked like mad, but it was no good. When they tried to head inshore that cur rent got ’em right. The whole shooting-match went over Salta Para.”
“Caramba!” I muttered. “There could have been nothing left of them.”
“Not a thing. I went down as fast as I could leg it, but there wasn’t even a hat.
“Well, I was up against it for awhile. Luckily for me, I hadn’t put my gun or my personal kit aboard, so I still had them. Had my hammock and such stuff in my bag, and matches and cartridges and some other truck in that leather case; but there wasn’t a bite of grub, or anything else.
“Seeing those chaps go over like that, fighting like mad and screeching like lost souls just as they went out of sight—it took all the nerve out of me. I just hung around that old camp a couple of days, moping like a sick owl. Shot some birds to live on, but had to eat ’em half-burned and without salt. Then, just as I was getting ready to start the long hike back down to the Indian quarters, some more Indians suddenly showed up. They came from up-stream.
“There were six of them, and a couple of them could talk Spanish—better Spanish than I can, which isn’t saying much. They acted a bit wild at first, but after they looked me over awhile they decided I was all right, and we got along pretty well. They were from the upper Ventuari—away up, only four or five days’ travel from the Caura—and were going down to visit their friends below Salta Para, where I’d been; it seems they visit back and forth by some short-cut of theirs. Well, after a lot of talk they let out that there was some fine balata country over west a bit, and by promising them a lot of presents I got them to take me over there—thought I’d look it over and then go on down-river with them.”
“Where were you to get those presents for them?” I wondered.
“Oh, there are one or two little settlements out near the Orinoco where I could probably buy such stuff as they’d want, if they’d come out that far; and I still have a few Banco de Venezuela notes on me.
“So we went on up into the balata country—it’s there, all right, and it’s big. Well, then I kept poking along over She hills, keeping these boys with me, and we got into this country on the other side of the divide. I’d made up my mind that as long as I was in here I’d see all I could, though I don’t mind telling you I’ll never come back to Venezuela after I once get out of it. I’ll report my findings to my company and then let some other poor fool develop what I’ve found. These cursed bugs of yours—well, it’s not my kind of a country.
“Anyway, my Indians thought they’d gone far enough, and they wanted to get back to the Caura. But I told them that if they quit they’d get no presents, and if they stayed a little longer I’d give them more, and they stuck. 'Then we met up with those Yabaranos, and—here we are.”
I thought a minute. So the men behind were the Yabaranos. And my Macos had said they were peaceable unless aroused.
“Did the Yabaranos attack you on sight?” I asked.
“Well, no. We stayed about three days at their place, getting rested and so on. But this morning they got sore about something or other and started to kill us off. Maybe some of my Indians did something they didn’t like. Anyway, we had to rush a canoe and get out. They killed two of my men before we could, get away, and two more on the way down the river. Maybe they’d have gotten the rest of us if you hadn’t shown up. It was mighty decent of you, old chap, to pitch in and help. How on earth did you get here? You were in Bolívar when I left.”
I told him I was roving around and looking for balata. Then I picked up my gun and got outside as if to watch behind us again. I wanted to do a little thinking without being talked to. And, leaning on the cabin roof as before, I thought.
I liked his off-hand way of telling his tale, and I admired his pluck in sticking to his work in spite of everything. Truly, one can not always judge a man by his face or his clothes. But the last part of his story—about the Yabaranos—did not ring true in my mind.
He had not looked me in the eye when he half-blamed the Maquiritares for the trouble. And I know the Maquiritares. Some trouble-makers can be found among them, as among any other people; all of them can fight wickedly if their wrath is aroused; but as a race they are good-humored, laughing much among themselves, and not at all the sort of people to stir up a fight. Besides, there had been only six of them, visiting a whole tribe of Yabaranos. For them to cause any trouble where they were so badly outnumbered would be the act of fools. And the Maquiritares are very far from being fools.
Thinking of all this, I decided that later on I would ask the Maquiritares for their side of the story. And that night I did so.
We thumped steadily on down the stream, and for a long time I stood where I was. White remained in the cabin—there was nothing else for him to do—and after awhile I looked in to find him asleep.
We reached the Ventuari even sooner than I expected, and at dark we were camping in a snug little port three miles up on the south side. Not once had I seen or heard anything more of the Yabaranos. Except myself, every man was very tired. Yet, after a bath and a cold meal, the Indians silently dug with paddles and machete a good grave for the dead man whom we had brought with us. And White did something that rather surprized me. He stood looking down at the grave a minute and then said farewell.
“Adios, amigo,” he said soberly. “I’m sorry. You stuck from start to finish with never a whine. No matter how rough it came, you always carried on. You were clear grit. And that goes for the other three boys we had to leave behind us.”
Then he turned and walked away. And not another word did he speak that night.
The Indians looked after him, then at me. I told them what he had said. They nodded slowly. Then I quietly told them to come with me. The shore of the little port was a sandy slope, and we walked away along it, squatted, and talked low.
I asked first what they knew of me, Loco León. They said my name was known among them, from the Padamo to the Caura, as that of a buen hombre. That was well, I told them. And what did they know of the Yabaranos? Were they friends of the Maquiritares?
They had been friends, they said. The Yabaranos never came up into the Maquiritare hills, but the Maquiritares sometimes passed through the Yabarano country while roving about, and there had been no enmity. Then why did the Yabaranos now attack the Maquiritares?
The pair did not answer at once. Then one said—
“Because of the white man.”
“Tell me how it came about,” I requested.
“It was thus, Loco:
“We rested three days at their tribe-house on the Guaviarito. They were kind. But the women liked the face of the blanco. A tall young woman often came near him. He talked with her. Her man was away on a hunt.
“We Maquiritares slept in the big house, with the unmarried men. The blanco slept outside, in a little house made for him. Last night the moon was bright. It was late. The dogs barked loud. Men went to look. They saw the tall woman leave the house of the blanco and run to her little window. She crept in. It became quiet.
“The Yabaranos do not like such things. The men talked. When day came we told the blanco we all must go. We made ready. Men came and told us we must stay. The blanco must stay until the man of the tall woman came in. Then the two should settle about whose woman she was.
“The blanco was angry. He did not want the woman. He would go when he liked. He would go now. The father of the woman ran at him with a tigre spear. The blanco knocked it away and struck the father with his gun. The man fell. He looked dead.
“The rest rushed at us with clubs and spears. We threw the bags of the blanco into a curial. Two of us were killed. He shot four Yabaranos. He and the rest of us got away. They followed.”
So that was it! I shut my mouth hard to keep my thoughts inside my head. After a minute or two I asked:
“Did he tell the woman to come to him? Or did she go unasked?”
“We did not hear him tell her to come. He talked to pass the time. He said she was handsome, and he would like to have a girl like her. But he laughed while he said it, and he left her to go and watch a dog-fight. He cared nothing about her. She was loco.”
“Did he know she had a man?”
They thought a little, and looked doubtful. One said:
“Perhaps not. He asked no questions about anyone.”
“I see. Now what will become of the woman? Will she be killed?”
“We do not know. She went to the blanco—he did not go to her. So she will be punished. Perhaps she will be killed.”
“That is, it depends on what kind of man she has.”
“It is so.”
Then we arose and went back to the little fire. White was squatting there, and he glanced up, but said nothing. After looking at him a minute I walked away and left him.
Was he still grieving over the four faithful men who had died for him that day? Was he worrying about the fate of the woman who had come to him under the night moon? He was not. He had forgotten such small matters for something much more important.
His little mirror was in his hand, and by the firelight he was studying again that zancudo bite which might mar his face.