Chapter XVIII: Fruit of the Trap

Heavy hypodermic doses of quinine, aided by Tim’s rugged constitution and the fact that this was his first attack of the ravaging sickness of the swamp lands, pulled him back to safety within the next two days. To safety, but not to strength. Despite his stout-hearted assertions that he was ready to hit the trail and “walk the legs off the whole danged outfit,” he was obviously in no condition to stand up under the grueling pack work that lay ahead. Wherefore, McKay, after consultation with the others of the party, and, through Lourenço, with Monitaya, gave him inflexible orders.

“You’ll stay here. Stick in your hammock until you’re in fighting trim. Then watch yourself. Don’t pull any bonehead plays that’ll get these people down on you. Take quinine daily according to Knowlton’s directions--he’s written them on the box. If we’re not back in a fortnight Monitaya will send men to find out why. If they find that we’re--not coming back--you will be guided to the river, where you can get down to the Nunes place.”

“But, Cap--”

“No argument!”

“But listen here, for the love o’ Mike! I ain’t no old woman! I can stand the gaff! I’m goin’ with the gang!”

“You hear the orders!” McKay snapped, with assumed severity. “Think we want to be bothered with having you go sick again? You’re out of shape and we’ve no room for lame ducks. You’ll stay here!”

Tim tried another tack.

“Aw, but listen! Ye ain’t goin’ to desert a comrade amongst a lot o’ man eaters--right in the place where I got sick, too. Soon’s I git away from here I’ll be all right--”

“That stuff’s no good,” the captain contradicted, with a tight smile. “You didn’t get fever here. It’s been in your system for days. You got it back on the river. These people don’t have it, or any other kind of sickness. I’ve looked around and I know. As for the man eaters, they’re mighty decent folks toward friends. We’re friends. You’ll be under the personal protection of Monitaya, and his word is good as gold. It’s all arranged, and you’re safer here than you would be in New York.”

In his heart the stubborn veteran knew McKay was right, but, like any other good soldier ordered to remain out of action, he grumbled and growled regardless. To which the ex-officers paid about as much attention as officers usually do. They went ahead with their own preparations.

“Be of good heart, Senhor Tim,” Pedro comforted, mischievously. “You will not lack for company. The chief has appointed two girls to wait upon you at all times.”

“Huh? Them two tall ones that’s been hangin’ round and fetchin’ things? Are they mine?”

“Yes. They are quite handsome in their way, and strong enough to help you about if your legs remain weak. In that case you will probably be allowed to put your arms around them for support. I almost wish I could get fever, too.”

Tim’s voice remained a growl, but his face did not look so doleful as before.

“Grrrumph! I always seem to draw big females, and I don’t like ‘em. Gimme somethin’ cute like them li’l’ frog dolls in Paree--sort o’ pee-teet and chick. Still, a feller’s got to do the best he can. Mebbe I’ll live till you guys git back.”

With which he availed himself of the prerogative of a sick man and grinned openly at the two comely young women who stood near at hand, awaiting any demand for services. They were not at all backward in reciprocating, and, despite the tribal paint and their labial ornaments, the smiles softening their faces made them not half bad to look upon.

“‘O death, where is thy sting?’” laughed Knowlton. “Be careful not to strain your heart while we’re away, Tim.”

“Don’t worry. It’s a tough old heart--been kicked round so much it’s growed a shell like a turtle. Besides, I seen wild women before I ever come to the jungle.”

Notwithstanding his apparent resignation, however, Tim erupted once more when his comrades shouldered their packs, picked up their guns, and spoke their thanks and good-by to Monitaya. He arose on shaky legs and desperately offered to prove his fitness by a barehanded six-round bout with his commanding officer. When McKay, with sympathetic eyes but gruff tones, peremptorily squelched him he insisted on at least going to the door to watch his comrades start the journey from which they might or might not return. Nor did he take advantage of his chance to hug the girls on the way.

With one arm slung over the shoulders of a wiry young warrior who grinned proudly at the honor of being selected to help a guest of the great chief, he followed the departing column out into the sunshine, where the entire tribe was assembled. And when the stalwart band had filed into the shadows of the trees and vanished he stood for a time unseeing and gulping at something in his throat.

Straight away along a vague path beginning at the rear of the malocas marched the twenty-four, the two northerners bending under the weight of their packs, the pair of Brazilians sweeping the jungle with practiced eyes, the score of Mayorunas striding velvet footed, resplendent in brilliant new paint and headdresses, armed with the most powerful weapons of their tribe, and loftily conscious of the fact that they were chosen as Monitaya’s best. Savage and civilized, each man was fit, alert, formidable. Nowhere in the loosely joined chain was a weak link.

Before the departure the Americans had been at some trouble to rid themselves of Yuara, who, with his men, had tarried at the Monitaya malocas during Tim’s sickness. While Knowlton was giving his ripped arm a final dressing he had calmly announced his intention of joining the expedition into the Red Bone country, and it had taken some skillful argument by Lourenço to dissuade him without arousing his anger. All four of the adventurers would gladly have taken him along had he not been hampered by his injury, but, under the ruthless rule barring all men not in possession of all their strength, he had to be left.

Now, as on the previous jungle marches, the way was led by two of the tribesmen, followed by the Brazilians and the Americans, after whom the main body of the escort strode in column. The leader and guide, one Tucu, was a veteran hunter, fighter, and bushranger, who had been more than once in the Red Bone region and withal possessed the cool judgment of mature years and long experience; a lean, silent man who, though not a subchief, might have made a good one if given the opportunity. With him Lourenço had already arranged that a direct course should be followed, and that whenever dense undergrowth blockaded the way the machete men should take the lead.

For some time no word was spoken. The path wound on, faintly marked, but easy enough to follow with Tucu picking it out. It was not one of the frequently used trails of the Monitaya people, but a mere picada, or hunter’s track; yet even this had its pitfalls to guard the tribal house. Soon after leaving the clearing Tucu turned aside, passed between trees off the trail, went directly under one tree whose steep-slanting roots stood up off the ground like great down-pointing fingers, and returned to the path. All followed without comment.

A considerable distance was covered before any further sign of the presence of ambushed death was shown by the savages. Then it came with tragic suddenness.

Tucu grunted suddenly, and in one instant shifted his gait from the easy swing of the march to the prowl of a hunting animal. Behind him the line grew tense. The click of rifle hammers and of safeties being thrown off breech bolts blended with the faint slither of arrows being swiftly drawn from quivers. Eyes searched the bush, spying no enemy.