Chapter II: At Sundown

Past the loungers in the street, past others in the doorways, past children and dogs and goats, the pair marched briskly to the faded blue house whence the federal superintendent ruled the town with tropic indolence. There they found a thin, fever-worn, gravely courteous gentleman awaiting them.

“Sit, senhores,” he urged, with a languid wave of the hand toward chairs. “I am honored by your visit, as is all Remate de Males. In what way can I serve you?”

The blond answered:

“We have come, sir, both for the pleasure of making your acquaintance and for a little information. First permit me to introduce my friend Mr. Roderick McKay, lately a captain in the United States army. I am Meredith Knowlton. There is a third member of our party, Mr. Timothy Ryan, who remained on the river bank to talk with--er--a soldier of Brazil.”

The federal official nodded, a slight smile in his eyes.

“We are here ostensibly for exploration,” Knowlton continued, candidly, “but actually to find a certain man. I think it quite probable that we shall have to do considerable exploring before finding him.”

“Ah,” the other murmured, shrewdly. “It is a matter of police work, perhaps?”

“No--and yes. The man we seek is not wanted by the law, and yet he is. He has committed no crime, and so cannot be arrested. But the law wants him badly because the settlement of a certain big estate hinges upon the question of whether he is alive or dead. If alive, he is heir to more than a million. If not--the money goes elsewhere.”

“Ah,” repeated the official, thoughtfully.

“I might add,” McKay broke in with a touch of stiffness, “that neither I nor either of my companions would profit in any way by this man’s death. Quite the contrary.”

“Ah,” reiterated the other, his face clearing. “You are commissioned, perhaps, to find and produce this man.”

“Exactly,” Knowlton nodded. “From our own financial standpoint he is worth much more alive than dead. On the other hand, any absolute proof of his death--proof which would stand in a court of law--is worth something also. Our task is to produce either the man himself or indisputable proof that he no longer lives.

“The man’s name is David Dawson Rand. If alive, he now is thirty-three years old. Height five feet nine. Weight about one hundred sixty. Hair dark, though not black. Eyes grayish green. Chief distinguishing marks are the green eyes, a broken nose--caused by being struck in the face by a baseball--and a patch of snow-white hair the size of a thumb ball, two inches above the left ear. Accustomed to having his own way, not at all considerate of others. Yet not a bad fellow as men go--merely a man spoiled by too much mothering in boyhood and by the fact that he never had to work. This is he.”

From a breast pocket he drew a small grain-leather notebook, from which he extracted an unmounted photograph. The superintendent looked into the pictured face of a full-cheeked, wide-mouthed, square-jawed man with a slightly blasé expression and a half-cynical smile. After studying it a minute he nodded and handed it back.

“As you say, senhor, a man who never has had to work.”

“Exactly. For five years this man has been regarded as dead. It was his habit to start off suddenly for any place where his whims drew him, notifying nobody of his departure. But a few days later he would always write, cable, or telegraph his relatives, so that his general whereabouts would soon become known. On his last trip he sent a radio message from a steamer, out at sea, saying he was bound for Rio Janeiro. That was the last ever heard from him.”

“Rio is far from here,” suggested the Brazilian.

“Just so. We look for Rand at the headwaters of the Amazon, instead of in Rio, because Rio yields no clew and because of one other thing which I shall speak of presently.

“It has been learned that he reached Rio safely, but there his trail ended. As he had several thousand dollars on his person, it was concluded that he was murdered for his money and his body disposed of. This belief has been held until quite recently, when a new book of travel was published--The Mother of Waters, by Dwight Dexter, an explorer of considerable reputation.”

The Brazilian’s brows lifted.

“Senhor Dexter? I remember Senhor Dexter. He stopped here for a short time, ill with fever. So he has published a book?”

“Yes. It deals mainly with his travels and observations in Peru, along the Marañon, Huallaga, and Ucayali. But it includes a short chapter regarding the Javary, and in that chapter occurs the following, which I have copied verbatim.”

From the notebook he read:

“‘It falls to the lot of the explorer at times to meet not only hitherto unclassified species of fauna and flora, but also strange specimens of the genus homo. Such a creature came suddenly upon my camp one day just before a serious and well-nigh fatal attack of fever compelled me to relinquish my intention to proceed farther up the Javary.

“‘While my Indian cook was preparing the afternoon meal, out from the dense jungle strode a bearded, shaggy-haired, painted white man, totally nude save for a narrow breechclout and a quiver containing several long hunting arrows. In one hand he carried a strong bow of really excellent workmanship. This was his only weapon. He wore no ornament, unless streaks of brilliant red paint be considered ornaments. He was wild and savage in appearance and manner as any cannibal Indian. Yet he was indubitably white.

“‘To my somewhat startled greeting he made no response. Neither did he speak at any time during his unceremonious visit. Bolt upright, he stood beside my crude table until the Indian stolidly brought in my food. Then, without a by-your-leave, the wild man rapidly wolfed down the entire meal, feeding himself with one hand and holding his bow ready in the other. Though I questioned him and sought to draw him into conversation, he honored me with not so much as a grunt or a gesture. When the table was bare he stalked out again and vanished into the dim forest.

“‘After he had gone my Indian urged that we leave the place at once. The man, he said, was “The Raposa”--a word which denotes a species of wild dog sometimes found on the upper Amazon. He knew nothing of this “Raposa” except that he apparently belonged to a wild tribe living far back in the forest, perhaps allied with the cannibal Mayorunas, who were very fierce; and that he appeared sometimes at Indian settlements, where, without ever speaking, he would help himself to the best food and then leave. My man seemed to fear that now some great misfortune would come to us unless we shifted our base. When the fever came upon me soon afterward, the superstitious fellow was convinced that the illness was attributable directly to the visit of the human “wild dog.”

“‘Aside from the nudity and barbarism of the mysterious stranger, certain personal peculiarities struck me. One was that his eyes were green. Another was a streak of snow-white hair above one ear. Furthermore, the red paint on his body outlined his skeleton. His ribs, spine, arm- and leg-bones all were portrayed on his tanned skin by those brilliant red streaks. In this connection my Indian asserted that in the tribe to which “The Raposa” probably belonged it was the custom to preserve the bones of the dead and to paint them with this same red dye, after which the bones were hung up in the huts of the deceased instead of being given burial. Beyond this my informant knew nothing of the “Red Bone” people, except that to enter their country was death.’”