Chapter VIII: The Double-Cross

Noon, sweltering hot. A blazing sun pouring vertical rays down on a blinding river. A long canoe wearily creeping up the glaring waters, minus a lookout, heedless of the ever-present danger of sunken tree trunks; propelled by three sun-blistered white men, one of whom wore a bandage around his head; steered perfunctorily by a pallid pirate whose left arm hung in a sling. Atop the right bank an unbroken, endless tangle of jungle growth. Ahead, on the left shore, a gap gouged out of the forest and a number of boats at the water’s edge.

“Guess that’s it,” panted Knowlton, shielding his eyes and squinting at the clearing. “One more day’s journey, the Brazilian chap said. We’ve been two and a half.”

“One day’s journey for six hardened rivermen, señor,” corrected José. “Not for three men doing six men’s work and hampered by a cripple.”

“Aw, ye’re no crip, Hozy,” dissented Tim. “Any guy that can steer a tub like this here one-handed after losin’ a couple gallons o’ juice is in good shape yet, I’ll say. If ye had both legs shot off and yer arms broke and yer head stove in, now, ye might call yourself sort o’ helpless. Ease her over to the left a li’l’ more, so’s we’ll hit the bank right at the corner o’ that gap. Me, I don’t want to take one stroke more ‘n I have to. Every muscle in me is so sore it squeaks.”

“Same here,” admitted Knowlton. “I’m one solid ache.”

José nodded. The clumsy craft veered a bit. The three put a little more punch into their lagging strokes, noting, as they neared the steep bank, that a couple of men had appeared at its top and were staring at them. Gradually the long dugout worked in to the muddy shore, where the paddlers stabbed their blades into the clay and held it firm.

“Ahoy, up there! This the Nunes seringal?”

From the edge, some thirty feet above, the taller of the two watchers answered:

“Si, senhor. The headquarters of the coronel. Do you come to visit him?”

“Right.”

“Then permit me to help you. The path is a little ahead. Pull up and tie to this stake.”

The tall fellow came dropping swiftly downward. At the same time the other Brazilian stepped back and was gone.

With a dexterous twist the man of Nunes moored the boat to the designated stake. Then he reached a hand toward Tim to help him out.

“I ain’t no old woman, feller,” Tim refused, and hopped aground unassisted. McKay and Knowlton followed. But José, after moving languidly forward and contemplating the sharp slope, hesitated and then shrugged his shoulders.

“I am tired, señores,” he said. “And perhaps it would be well for one to stay here and watch.”

The tall Brazilian’s eyes narrowed.

“There is no danger of loss,” he asserted, with dignity. “We men of the coronel are not thieves.”

The slight emphasis of his last sentence might have been taken as an intimation that some one else not far away would bear watching. José’s mouth tightened. For a moment Brazilian and Peruvian eyed each other in obvious dislike. Then, with a glance at his crippled arm, José shrugged again.

“Better come along, José,” McKay said. “Stuff’s safe enough.”

“As you will, Capitan.”

He lounged to the edge, hesitated, wavered slightly. At once the Brazilian darted out a hand and gave him support. And while the four clambered up the slope he retained a grip on the Peruvian’s arm, aiding him to the top. When they emerged on the level, however, he dropped his hand immediately. José gave him a half-mocking bow of thanks, to which he replied with a short nod. Then he stepped back and let the Peruvian precede him toward a number of substantial pole-supported houses a hundred yards away.

“No love lost between them two,” thought Tim, who had watched it all. “Good skate, though, this new feller. Ready to help a guy that needs it, whether he likes him or not; ready to knock his block off, too, if he needs that. Bet he’d be a hellion in a scrap. Dang good-lookin’ lad, too.”

Wherewith he introduced himself.

“Don’t git sore because I growled at ye down below,” he said, with a friendly grin. “Sounded rough, mebbe, but that’s my style. I’m Tim Ryan, from the States. I bark more ‘n I bite.”

The overture met with instant response--a quick smile and a twinkle in the warm eyes.

“It is not words that give offense, senhor, but the way they are spoken--and the man who speaks them. One man may growl, but you like him. Another may speak smoothly, but you itch to strike him. Is it not so? I am Pedro Andrada, a seringueiro who should be tapping trees instead of loafing here. But my partner and I have just come in from a long trip into the sertao--wilderness--and are resting.”

“Yeah? Was that yer buddy I seen with ye?”

“My--ah--buddee? Partner? Yes, that was he--Lourenço Moraes, the best comrade one ever had. He has gone to tell the coronel of your arrival. Have you met with an accident downriver?”

He moved a thumb meaningly toward the only remaining member of the crew.

“Yeah,” grimly. “Bad accident.”

Tim tapped his pistol significently, raised five fingers, winked, and twitched his head toward the Peruvian. Pedro lifted his brows, nodded quick understanding, pointed to the bad arm of José, and made motions as if pulling a trigger. Tim shook his head and enacted the pantomime of drawing and throwing a knife. Whereat the Brazilian, aware that José was not a prisoner and probably knowing that North Americans were not knife throwers, looked much puzzled. But their sign manual went no farther, for they now approached the house which evidently formed the dwelling and office of Coronel Nunes.

At the foot of the ladder stood a broad-shouldered, square-jawed, thick-muscled, deeply tanned man, who, without speaking, pointed a thumb upward. Above, in the doorway, waited an elderly Brazilian of medium height and spare figure, standing with soldierly erectness and garbed in white duck of semimilitary cut. He beamed down at McKay and Knowlton, but as his black eyes encountered those of José they seemed suddenly to become very sharp. Then his gaze rested on Tim’s broad face and he smiled again.

“Enter, gentlemen,” he invited. “Esta casa e a suas ordenes--this house is at your disposal.”

McKay, with a bow, climbed the ladder, followed by Knowlton. José, with a swaggering stare at the wide-shouldered man, who stared straight back without facial change, also went up. Tim came fourth and last, for Pedro stopped beside his countryman, who evidently was Lourenço.

The travelers found themselves in a room which, in view of its distance from civilization, seemed palatial. Its floor was tight, its furniture modern, its walls decorated with a few excellent pictures, of which the largest was a superb view of the rugged harbor of Rio de Janeiro. Comfortable chairs were ranged along the walls, and the middle of the room was occupied by a massive square-cornered table on which lay a jumble of hand-written business papers, a number of books, a high-grade violin and bow. Beyond the table stood a swivel chair, evidently the usual seat of the coronel. Table and chair were so arranged that the master of this house sat always with his back to a wall and his face toward the door. And on a couple of hooks on that wall, ready for instant service, hung a high-power rifle.