Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 102: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

100 than one Jivero into the land of shadows with him. And he shall have a fitting funeral.’ To the sargento who had captured the big Jivero he gave commands. At once the man went away. José, carrying the head, entered the house. After a glance at one another, the Americans lounged in after him. Nuné, who had come up with the canoe men as a matter of course, followed. The interior of the place differed little from the customary head-hunter habitation. The usual low bamboo couches and high meat-racks were there; clay pots and jars, lay about the dirt floor; and overhead were suspended blow-guns, spears, baskets and ripening bunches of plantains. One of the beds, however, was somewhat more ornate than ordinary, its rails being decorated with feather-work snugly glued down; and on the wall above it hung a magnificent black-jaguar hide and a cluster of shrunken heads. From these indications, as well as its central location, the strangers judged it to be the home of the chief of the tribe; and the powerful savage, they assumed, was the chief himself. This proved, however, to be not quite correct. The chief was dead, and the captive was the wizard of the settlement. Ringed by menacing foes, he stood with a hang-dog air, awaiting whatever doom might be pronounced on him. To his evident surprize, the Spaniard ordered his bonds removed. Then he was made to squat before the decorated couch, and on that couch José took his seat, the head of Montez still in his hands. On that head the Jivero’s black eyes fixed. The house erew as still as a tomb. In harsh accents, the outlaw king began to talk. His words were incomprehen- sible to the Americans, and, apparently, to the prisoner. The threat in the rasping tones, however, was unmistakable. When José ceased, another voice commenced. it was that of the ubiquitous Curac, trans- lating into the Jivero tongue the words spoken in Sumatara by his ruler. If any- thing, his voice was even more rough than that of José; and his face, usually so de- ceptively good-humored because of his up- turned scar, now seemed to wear the grin of a demon. The Jivero again began to sweat. When Curac had finished, the captive made no answer. Again José talked; again Curac repeated. Still no answer. The Adventure beady eyes flickered from side to side as if seeking a chance for a desperate lunge for safety—and finding none. José, leaning forward, aggressively began a third speech. Apparently the session would last for a considerable time. McKay and Knowlton, keenly watching faces, tried to deduce the nature and purpose of the inquisition. Tim, still rankling, found the meaningless jargon and the brow-beating by José jarring on his temper. He swung on a heel and walked out of the place. Outside he paused, viewing the surround- ings and trying to decide which way to turn his restless feet. The Sumataras now were moving about the clearing and picking up Jiveros, whom they bore to a spot near by and piled in a heap. As Tim watched, a slight sound behind him drew his head around. On his morose face dawned a smile. Nuné had followed him. She smiled straight back at him, and smiled most winsomely. More than that, she manifested a desire to walk with him. With a slight inclination of the head she indicated an empty house near at hand. He needed no second invitation. In a few minutes they were out of .the scorching sun, and also out of sight and hearing of those remaining in the central structure. There, in the shadows, she speedily made plain the object of her unexpected move. ““Teem,” she said, “which is most your friend—Rana, or that man called José?” “Rana!” The tone was sourly emphatic. “And those two with you—Rodrigo and the light one—are they true friends to Rana?” ¢¢ S @l”? “Ts the man José your master? Must you obey him?” The question probably was not meant to infuriate Tim, but it did. “Hime” he sputtered in English. “Not in a million years! He’s a swell-headed mutt that’s so bloated up over bossin’ a few Injuns he thinks he can use white men the same way. But he’s through! Thinks we’re a bunch o’ dumbbells. Aw, ye don’t understand.”’ In Spanish he said: “No. We are free men. He is master of nothing but Indians.” She smiled again, seeming pleased by the obvious anger she had evoked, and stole a little closer to him. “It is well,” she said. ‘You are strong GCOMIGDOOKSEEO