X.
THE match went out.
Once more I scraped a fresh fire-stick, and this time I gave its flame to a new torch. By the larger light we looked down into the cavity.
It was empty.
But it had not been empty long. At its edge dirt was broken away, and at the break showed fresh finger-marks; marks made by the hands of some one pulling himself up out of the pit.
Lowering the light, I examined the hole itself. It looked about five feet deep, and its sides were lined by a tube of woven sticks which would keep them from caving in.
“What is it?” asked Senhor Tom.
We told him what we had found. He nodded shortly.
“That's one of the things I thought of,” he said. “I'll tell you why after you look around some more. Get busy now, and move everything.”
But before we began a thorough search Pedro noticed something else.
“That cursed bat-mask is gone,” he pointed out.
So it was. The hideous thing had vanished.
“A queer thing for an escaping prisoner to carry off,” I said. “Perhaps, though, some one else took it. Before we go, let us see if more holes are here.”
Swiftly we moved every jar, stamped on the ground, explored the walls and the roof with our knives. We found no other hiding-place.
“Uh-huh,” said our comrade when we told him. “That ends our visit here. I thought of the possibility of a ground-hole for this reason—the Tucunas have a habit of burying their chiefs in big jars under their houses. Knowing this, it occurred to me that the medicine-man might use a burial jar, or anyway a hole in the ground, to conceal something that wasn't dead.
“If we'd come here a little sooner we might have found what we've been hunting for. Now we haven't much chance of trailing anybody until morning. No one knows what may happen before then.”
We said nothing. But I thought of that jaguar which had slipped along beside us, not quite willing to attack three men carrying fire. If he should meet a lone wanderer with no light, he might be more than willing to make his kill.
I turned toward the door. But Pedro took the smoky torch from me, lay down beside the hole, and lowered the light to the full length of his arm. Before I could puzzle out what he was doing he arose again.
“The dirt in the bottom of that hole has boot-tracks in it,” he told us. “Now if we can—”
A noise stopped him. Shouts were rising in the clearing beyond us, where the maloca stood. One voice yelled so loud that we caught the words “anyi” and “andirah”—devil and bat.
“Bat-devil,” Pedro repeated. “The bat-mask is there at the maloca! Come!”
Grasping Senhor Tom's hands, we lunged out of the place and ran for the path leading to the tribal house.
Luckily we found it without loss of time, and very soon we had passed through the forest and emerged into the larger clearing. At the farther end of the tribal house lights flared, and it was there that the commotion was loudest. There was no doubt that the Tucunas were awake and that many of the men were outdoors with lights and weapons. But we ran on, determined now to see that prisoner in spite of Andirah and all his tribe.
Yet even as we ran we realized that the lights were fading out and that the noise was passing into the house. When we reached the farther corner and turned toward the door we saw only a number of Indians who seemed to be awaiting us. They peered at us in the light of our flickering torch. Into their faces came blank surprize.
“The whites! Tupahn!” they grunted.
No doubt they had thought our torch to be that of their pajé, running from his hut in pursuit of the escaping prisoner.
“Tell them to let us pass, senhor,” Pedro muttered. “Most of them have gone inside, and the mask also.”
Senhor Tom, though nearly out of breath after his blind run between us, had not lost his voice.
“Aye, Tupahn!” he boomed. 'We come again—to tell the Bat his pajé is a vile liar. Stand aside and let us enter!”
Staring at us, peering beyond us to see whether their priest followed, they gave way.
Through the doorway we crowded and toward the chief's fire we strode. Tucunas in our way got shoved roughly aside. The clatter of voices ahead of us quickly died. By the time we had forced our way to the central space the whole big house was quiet.
The silence was broken by Pedro's shout.
“At last! The senhorita!”
THERE on the ground before old Andirah, who sat in his hammock just as we had last seen him, lay a small figure in khaki. Our Lady Marion was there, yes; but whether it was the living girl, or only her body I could not tell. Straight and still she lay, her wonderful eyes closed and her face seeming dead white against her closely coiled black hair and the dark ground beneath. At her feet, looking like the head of a demon protruding above the ground, the bat-mask stood leering wickedly.
“Thank God!” Senhor Tom cried in a choked tone. “Marion! We are here! Speak up!”
“She seems to be in a swoon, comrade,” I told him. I fervently hoped it was nothing worse. “She lies quiet before Andira”
“By the Almighty, if she's dead—” he rasped, his hand going to his gun.
But Pedro grabbed that hand.
“Not too fast, senhor!” he warned. “Slow haste goes farthest. Have care.”
The North American gulped and nodded. Then he asked—
“Is the chief in his hammock?”
“Yes.”
“Andirah, chief of the people of the Bat!” thundered Senhor Tom. “I come again for my woman. That is she on the ground before you. You said no woman had been brought here. Yet here she is. You hid her from me! You handed her over to that stinking dog of a pajé! Your tongue is forked! Now that I find her again, I will have her!”
The old chief sat as if struck dumb. His hollow eyes rested on us without a blink. Then, slowly, he bent a little and stared down at the white face upturned to him.
“Alive or dead, I will have her!” our comrade raged. “And if she be dead, you too go to death! Bat? Chief? You will be chief among the bats of if you have destroyed her!”
He choked again. His hand tugged once more at his holstered gun, and once more Pedro gripped it hard. As slowly as he had bent, the old man sat up. His thin voice spoke.
“The eyes of the Bat are old and dim. They see not as they saw in the years that are gone. Yet they see. They see here a man with beardless face. If this be no man but a woman, why wears the woman the clothing of a man?”
For a moment we looked hard at him. As ever, his face was honest as the day. Suddenly our minds found light.
“Por Deus! That is it!' Pedro cried. “He sees dimly, as he says. The senhorita wears your clothing, Senhor Tom. She speaks no Tupi, could not understand what was said to her, made no answer. That rascally priest must have told the chief she was a man, an enemy, partner of the one who was killed. And the Bat, half blind and seeing what seemed to be a man, believed it all. Let us see if I am right.”
Stepping close to the chief, he went on:
“Tell us, heramuhm—grandfather—did your pajé say this was a man?”
He smiled as he spoke; and that handsome, boyish partner of mine could almost smile a bird into his hands if he tried. After a tight squint into his face the old man also smiled a little.
“It is so, herayi—my son—. Do you tell me he spoke false?”
“I do. He is crooked as a snake, and his tongue is split at both ends. If you believe me not, the proof is plain. Ask your own people to look on this one and say whether the face and hair are those of man or woman.”
“So shall it be,” the Bat agreed. He spoke to those nearest. But none of them needed to look. Their eyes were better than his, and they had known what he was just learning. A droning chorus of voices answered—
“Kunyim buku.” (Young woman).
While the voices still sounded I stepped forward, dropped on one knee, and made a swift test of that still body.
“She lives, comrade!” I called. “She is not hurt.”
Before Senhor Tom could answer, the voice of old Andirah rose in shrill rage.
“You dumb beasts! Why did you not say before that this was a woman?”
His people stood dumb indeed, looking at him and at one another. Finally a man said sullenly—
“The pajé”
But he did not finish. At that instant a murmur ran through the crowd—the same words he had spoken, but in a different tone.
“The pajé!”
Turning, I saw coming toward us the priest himself.
He was streaked with mud, scratched by thorns, limping from some hurt received in his struggle homeward through the black bush. But he was uglier than ever. His under teeth showed now in a long line of yellow fangs, and through his wet hair his eyes gleamed like those of a mad animal. He was coming from the door in a lurching scramble, and evidently had heard only the last words spoken—his own title. So he a himself still the power behind the chief.
At sight of us he snarled. And he lost no time in denouncing us.
“Andirah,” he growled, “these men come to kill you! They have tried to torture and murder me, pajé of your people, but by my power I vanished from them. Now slay them quickly, before they strike at you! Warriors, spear them!”
In that moment it was easy to see that the men of the tribe had long been used to obeying the commands of the priest. Several spearmen near us promptly lowered their weapons. But then their hands halted, and no man moved toward us. Instead, all glanced at their chief.
“It is well for you, Tucunas, that you hesitate,” Pedro said grimly, holding our one rifle leveled at the nearest man's body. “We do not die meekly. And it is well for you that you look for orders to the chief. This false priest of yours already has deceived your ruler as well as us; has made a fool of the Bat and brought down on him the wrath of the Thunderstorm. Andirah will no longer allow such a traitor to speak for him.”
The speech, like a double-edged knife, cut two ways. It made every Tucuna realize that it was indeed unsafe to obey their pajé without thinking; and it maddened their chief against the medicine-man. The thin old voice broke out in a screech of fury.
“Down with those spears!” The weapons sank to the ground. “You snake! You split-mouthed vulture! You filth! No more are you pajé of the Bat! You shall be the dog of the women! You shall be spat on by the children! You shall work in the crops, a slave, a beast! You shall”
His shrill tones cracked. Then they were drowned by the roar of Senhor Tom's voice.
“Give him to me, Andirah! He is my enemy and yours. Tupahn the Thunderstorm will give him his punishment!”
As he spoke he swung toward the place where he had heard the priest demand our lives. But the pajé had stepped a little aside. So, though Senhor Tom spoke to him, his unseeing eyes rested on a post.
“Come here to me, stealer of women!” he snapped. “With my bare hands alone I will break you!”
With the words he unbuckled his gun-belt and held it out toward us. To keep it from falling, I grasped it. But I whispered:
“Are you mad, comrade, to fight a man you can not see? He is heavier than you. Let me fight him!”
“He's my meat!” was the hoarse answer. “Hands off!”
The pajé, who had taken a backward step, now was watching him like a hawk. Suddenly he broke out in a jarring laugh.
“Tupahn?” he jeered. “This man Tupahn? No! Andirah, these three make a fool of you indeed. This is no Tupahn, killer of Black Hawk. He is only a loud-mouthed pretender. He can not even see! He is blind!”
But before the Bat could waver and grow suspicious of us, Senhor Tom echoed the words.
“I am blind. My eyes see not. The bullet of the man caught by the Tucunas killed my sight. But I am Tupahn! And, blind or not, Tupahn can punish his foes. Unless you fear a blind man, you skulking pajé of a brave tribe, come and fight!”
A hoarse mutter of admiration went around the big house. Old Andirah cackled.
“Tupahn speaks well,” he cried. “Better blind eyes and a straight tongue than a twisted mouth. Let Tupahn break his foe as he has promised! Men, put them together!”
This time the men of the tribe did not hesitate. Those behind the pajé gave him a sudden shove. Stumbling, snarling, he lurched forward at our comrade.
“On guard, senhor!” I warned.
INSTANTLY Senhor Tom struck out with both hands. One blow missed. The other caught the Indian solidly under the heart. The crack of fist on flesh was like a pistol-shot. The pajé gasped, staggered, then clutched with both hands for his foe's throat.
But the white man, having once felt his enemy, leaped and grappled. The clutching hands missed his throat, scraped past his neck, curved around behind him—then the Indian's arms clamped tight and he strove to crush our comrade down.
For a moment they strained there, the priest hissing through his teeth and slobbering like an animal, the blind man feeling for some arm-hold he wanted. All at once he gave back and stepped aside in the same instant, heaved—and the fight became a whirling tangle out of which came gasps, grunts, groans, and a sudden yell of pain and fear.
Down they thumped on the dirt. A gleam of yellow teeth, and from Senhor Tom came a short grunt. The pajé, like the dog he looked to be, was biting. But then came the lightning sweep of a hard fist, and the priest's head jolted as if hit by a club. Again the fist struck, and the red scroll of paint on the Indian's cheeks was blotted out by a swift rush of deeper red. He sank his head into his chest to avoid more blows.
Over they turned, and over, the pajé clawing and kicking and straining with sudden sobs for breath, the white man fighting with less struggling but more damage to his enemy. They wrestled up to their feet and fell again; they got each other down; only to be forced under in turn. They struck their heads and arms and legs against roof-poles so hard that it seemed they must be knocked senseless or break their bones. Yet they fought on.
Time and again Pedro and I had to grab them both and throw them, still locked together, away from the chief's fire. They kicked over the bat-mask, crumpled it under their rolling bodies, knocked it to pieces with feet and knees and elbows. They fell on hammocks, tore them from the lashings, and tangled themselves until they could hardly move. But not once did they pause to free themselves. Somehow they fought out of their entanglements as they had fought into them.
The end came all at once. They had fallen again across a hammock. It was tied up too stoutly to give way under them. Striking it almost at a run, they were thrown headlong to the ground on the other side. A violent thump sounded, and a roof-pole quivered with the shock. Then both were still.
For a little time no man touched them. We waited for them to renew their duel. But the minutes dragged away and neither moved. Their heavy breathing, too, seemed to have stopped.
Pedro and I looked at each other. Then we moved forward, straddled over the hanging net, and stooped over them.
Their grip on each other was broken. They lay slightly apart, with the roof-pole between them. I put a hand on that pole to steady myself, and took it away smeared red.
Senhor Tom lay sprawled along on one side, his face partly in the dirt, his clenched teeth showing faintly between his parted lips. I felt for his heart.
“He lives,” I told Pedro.
With a nod he turned and stooped over the pajé. After a sharp look he lifted the Indian's shoulders. Then he dropped him and stood up.
“Andirah and men of the Bat,” he said coolly, ““Tupahn the Thunderstorm always keeps his word. As he promised, he has broken his enemy with his bare hands. Your pajé will lie to you no more. His head hangs from shattered bones.”