Chapter X: By the Light of Storm

“One thing I can’t understand,” Knowlton said, toying with his coffee cup the next morning, “is why Schwandorf should double-cross us. We never did anything to him. Another thing I don’t quite get is how he expected to have the Peruvians wiped out when he knew blamed well they were aware of the enmity of the cannibals. They’d hardly be likely to go into the bush with us under those circumstances.”

“My guess is this,” McKay replied. “He set a trap. He is on a friendly footing with some of the savages above here, no doubt. He dispatched that Indian messenger to stir them up with some false tale and bring them to some place where they’d be pretty sure to get us. He primed the crew to jump us at the same place, perhaps. Then the crew would kill us or we’d kill them, and whichever side won would be smeared by the Indians. Sort of a trap within a trap. Why he did it doesn’t matter much. He double-crossed us, he double-crossed the crew, he double-crossed José. First thing he knows he’ll find he’s double-crossed himself.”

“Yeah,” Tim grunted. “He better beat it before we git back!”

“He wanted no killing before we reached the cannibal country,” McKay went on, “because then it would all be blamed on the savages and he could show clean hands. Francisco’s vengefulness tipped over his cart.”

“Still, he might have known we’d stop here for a call on the coronel, and that there was a big chance for us to be warned here about the feud between Mayorunas and Peruvians.”

“That probably was provided for. Crew doubtless had orders to prevent any such visit, by lying to us or in other ways. We probably would have gone surging past here at top speed.”

“Wal, it don’t git us nothin’ to talk about things that ‘ain’t happened,” interposed the practical Tim. “Question is, where do we go from here? And how?”

All eyes went to the coronel, who sat languidly smoking his morning cigar.

“Coronel, we are in your hands,” McKay said, bluntly. “Your men, I presume, are all out at work in various parts of the bush. We want a crew and, if possible, guides. Can you help us?”

The coronel flicked off an ash and spoke slowly:

“I have two men, senhores, who have no peers as bushmen. They are the two whom you saw yesterday. Frankly, they are most valuable to me, and I hesitate about sending them on so dangerous a mission as yours. Yet they might succeed where most men would fail, for they have repeatedly gone into the bush on risky journeys and returned unharmed. Their adventures would fill books.

“The older of these two, Lourenço Moraes, has been more than once among the cannibals of this region, and so he knows something of them. Naturally he did not live long among them; he left them as soon as he could. But he has the faculty of extricating himself from hopeless positions--or perhaps it would be better to say that his cool head and good fortune together have preserved him thus far. ‘Tanta vez vae o cantaro a fonte ate gue um dia la fica‘--the pitcher may go often to the spring, but some day it remains there.

“Pedro Andrada, the younger, is not so steady and cool-headed as Lourenço. Yet he is a most capable man, and the two together--they are always together--make a very efficient team.”

“I bet they do,” Tim concurred, heartily. “I like that Pedro lad fine.”

“So do I,” the coronel smiled. “Now, gentlemen, I will not order these men to go with you. If they go it must be of their own choice. They have only recently returned from a hazardous mission and they are entitled to rest. Yet I have little doubt that they will jump at the chance to risk their lives in a new venture. If they choose to go, I suggest that you place yourselves entirely in their hands and give them free rein. You would look far for better men.”

“And we’re lucky to get them,” Knowlton acquiesced. “To them and to you we shall be greatly indebted.”

“Not to me, senhor,” the coronel demurred “I do nothing but bring you men together. Theirs is the risk. ‘Tonio! Find Pedro and Lourenço. Shall we go into the office, gentlemen?”

Chairs scraped back and an exodus from the dining room ensued. Outside, the lusty voice of the negro bawled. Soon he was back, and at his heels strode the lithe Pedro and the quiet Lourenço. They ran their eyes over the group, then stood looking inquiringly at their employer.

“Be seated, men. Roll cigarettes if you like,” said the coronel. Coolly they did both. Pedro, catching Tim’s friendly grin, flashed a quick smile in return. Lourenço, unsmiling, looked squarely into each man’s face in turn and seemed satisfied with what he saw. Both then glanced around as if missing some one.

“Your friend José has left us,” the coronel informed them, dryly, interpreting the look. “He disappeared in the night.”

“Ah! That is why one of our canoes is gone,” said Pedro. “We are ready to start.”

“You mistake,” the old gentleman laughed. “We do not want him back. Nothing else is missing.”

Whereat Pedro looked slightly surprised. Lourenço’s lips curved in a faint grin. Neither made any further comment.

The coronel plunged at once into the business for which they had been summoned. Succinctly he stated the purpose of the North Americans in coming here, pointed out their need of guides--and stopped there. He said nothing of the dangers ahead, mentioned no reward, did not even ask the men whether they would go. He merely lit a fresh cigar and leaned back in his chair.

A silence followed. Again Lourenço looked searchingly into the face of each American. Pedro contemplated the opposite wall, taking occasional puffs from his cigarette. At length Knowlton suggested, tentatively:

“We will pay well--”

Both the bushmen frowned. The coronel spoke in a tone of mild reproof:

“Senhor, it is not a matter of pay. These men can make plenty of money as seringueiros.”

“Pardon,” said Knowlton, and thereafter held his tongue.

Deliberately Lourenço finished his smoke, pinched the coal between a hard thumb and forefinger, and spoke for the first time.