I
NOW, as I have told you, señores, before this, I am a rover of the balata rubber country where the Maquiritares live. In the dry time, when no balata can be gathered, I ramble in those wild mountains both for business and for pleasure: I scout for new rubber trees, I visit the tribe-houses of my Maquiritare friends, and I enjoy the freedom and the sudden adventures of the untamed highlands. In the rainy season my Maquiritares work the balata for me at the places I have chosen, and when the crop is in I bring it down the Orinoco to sell to Blum's commission house here in Ciudad Bolívar. Then I return to the uplands.
I am the only blanco in all Venezuela who can follow this life among the Maquiritares, for I am the only one whom they trust. Throughout their land the name of Loco León is known as that of an amigo and a buen hombre, who always keeps his word and treats them justly.
There are other men, of course, who also work the balata in the up-Orinoco country—but none who work it in the home-land of the Maquiritares. They would do so if they could, but they know the brown men would not let them. Perhaps when this tale of mine is done you will understand why the Indians keep those brutes out of their hills.
It was three years ago when this thing came about. It was also three years from the time when White had been turned into Black White by Juana, daughter of the chief of the Maquiritares of Uauana, at the top of the perilous river Ventuari.
Since that day I never had seen the face of that blackened man, nor did I wish to; for he has sworn that no white man shall look on his face and live to tell of it, and he means what he says. But I had heard his voice at times, and knew he still lived; for sometimes at night he would arrive unexpectedly and, standing back in the darkness where the light of my little camp-fire would not reveal him, he would order me to talk to him in English; and I would talk until, as suddenly as he had come, he went. I knew, too, that the girl Juana always was with him, for I heard her voice also.
But except for these things I knew nothing of him, because the Maquiritares would not talk about him, even to me.
Now, in that year of which I speak, I had finished my season's work, brought my balata down the Orinoco to Bolívar, taken my annual holiday, and gone back up the big river. Thus I had come to San Fernando de Atabapo, the only town in the big Territorio de Amazonas, and the place from which the murder-maniac Tomas Funes and his cut-throat army ruled the whole up-Orinoco country. It was also the place where my rivals in the balata trade lived in the dry season.
They had no love for me, those San Fernando men, nor I for them. They were jealous of me because, thanks to my straight dealings with the Maquiritares, I always got far bigger cargoes of balata than they could gather by brutal methods. My feelings toward them and their town was that of any normal man toward a den of snakes.
But, for several reasons, it was necessary for me to stop at San Fernando. I had to change boats, leaving the piragua in which my crew had poled up from the rapids of Maipures and transferring my trade-goods to the long curial which I use on the Ventuari. I had to visit Funes and tell him what I had seen and heard down the river; every one traveling up had to do this or risk being executed for disrespect to the tyrant. And I had to walk about, meet my enemies and look them in the eye, and let them see that I was not afraid of them. So I stopped at the town and did all these things.
Funes was in a sour mood that day, but I told him several funny stories about happenings here in Bolívar, and before I left him he was roaring like an areguato monkey. Then I strolled about the town, taking a drink here and there, listening to what I might hear, and talking to men who ached to kill me.
There was not the least doubt in my mind as to what those enemies of mine wanted to do. But I did not swagger about with rifle ready as if seeking trouble. Indeed, I had deliberately left my rifle in Funes' house, asking one of his bodyguard to take care of it for me; and my poniard and revolver were at my waist under my loose white coat—though the coat was unbuttoned. Nor did those men who longed to see my blood spattering on the ground speak what was in their black hearts. Things were not done so roughly in Funes' town—unless Funes himself ordered it.
"Hola, Loco León!" was the hearty greeting I got from the snake-tongued men. "Como 'stá uste', amigo? How are things below? Come and have a drink!"
And their hands would carelessly slip a little nearer to their belts.
"Gracia', Lucio," I would say. "I will have that drink and) buy you two in return. All is well down the river. How is it with you?"
And my arm would accidentally brush my coat back a trifle more from my hips.
And while we smiled and spoke so with our lips, their eyes would say—
"Your life hangs by a thread, and at my own time I shall cut it."
And mine would answer—
"It will take a better man than you to do it."
So we would drink and joke—with our mouths; and all would look as peaceful as windless water.
Yet these men who greeted me so cordially had boasted about what they would do to me when next I should come to town. Those brags had come to my ears, and now I was giving them their chance to "start something," as you North Americans say. And I was not the only one who waited to see how well the boasters made good their threats. While I stood and drank in the Casa del Pueblo, other men came carelessly drifting in or loitered around the doors, looking very innocent but watching and listening to what went on.
They kept on waiting, for nothing happened. I drank with every one of the men who had talked so loudly when I was far away, and they still did nothing but talk; what is more, they were careful how they talked.
Several times one or another of them passed behind my back, but I gave no attention to them; I knew that at that moment Tomas Funes felt good-humored toward me, and that every man in town was aware of it, and so every one of them knew that whoever stabbed me in the back would very soon be beheaded at Funes' order. Of course, if I should be killed in a fight, or by accident, that would be another matter.
Since nobody started a fight and there seemed to be little chance of an "accident" just then, I decided to quit drinking. I had had enough, and the boasters had not even boasted in my hearing, so there was no sense in wasting more time and money there. There was a full cup of caballo blanco (white rum) on the bar before me, and after tossing it off I would leave the place. But I never drank that liquor.
The little room was very hot, and the man at my right pushed away from the bar and went to the door. Another man stepped into his place, with his rifle swinging at his left leg. Glancing at him, I saw that he was a hard fellow, named Diego, who belonged to one of my snaky enemies, Otón Argel. And Argel himself had been standing for some time at my other side, and still stood there. So I was between Argel and his man.
Now, this Argel was supposed to be one of Tomás Funes' pets. I say "supposed to be," because no man ever could be sure of himself with Funes. No matter how slavishly he obeyed the tyrant's whims, he might suddenly find himself out of favor and lucky if he escaped with his life; for Funes trusted nobody, and many of the men killed by his order were murdered because he suspected them of plotting against him.
He did not even trust his own mistress—in which, perhaps, he was wise. Still, as I say, this Argel was believed to be in the good graces of Funes—though he had not succeeded in convincing his master that I ought to be executed, as he probably had tried to do.
He had been drinking there with me for some time, but I knew he had taken no more than I. Yet now he began to act drunk. He laughed very loud, slapped the bar with his hands, and threw his shoulders about quite clumsily. And Diego, saying nothing, stood loosely at my right side, his gun-butt on the floor and his eyes on the rum before him. His left hand hung down beside his rifle.
I was no stranger to San Fernando and its ways, and I smelt an "accident." Paying no attention to Diego, I watched the staggering Argel cornerwise and moved my right hand toward my cup of rum. At that instant Argel lurched heavily toward me.
My hand clutched the edge of the bar and I threw myself back with all my strength. In the same second Diego's gun belched flame across my abdomen. Burning powder stung my flesh. Argel gave a hoarse, horrible sound. His thick body thumped on the floor, and he writhed on the spot where my feet had just been.