Adventure Magazine, April 10, 1924 — page 108: what you’re looking at

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

THE moon crept downward and vanished. Guards were changed. The dank chill of late night grad- ually penetrated to the marrow of the new watchers, and they arose and moved about in short patrols. Beyond the wall roared hungry tigres, bold now that the light was gone, but baffled by the stockade. Down at the creek frogs hammered in rapid-fire chorus, and somewhere near at hand a tree- toad grumbled in bass tones like a lunatic voicing senseless gibberish. At length the gloom paled; black blots began to take on shape and form; the voices of the jaguars died out, and a new wave of discordant noise began to roll from the trees. Day was at hand, and the birds and animals of the daytime were hurling their waking clamor into the air. And inside the chonia walls men and women opened their eyes stretched, and arose. “Mornin’, kink!’ saluted Tim, reaching for his cigaret-makings. ‘“We’re still here, Noony and all. And this here is a new day—in more ways than one. What’s the layout for this lovely mornin’?”’ His tone was as jovial as if no rancor had ever arisen, and it was evident that bygones were bygones. “My first intention is to smoke a cigar- rillo,’ smiled José, producing his home- grown tobacco. ‘Then to eat. Next to put up a good cross over the spot where Montez lies. And then to move out west- ward. Is that satisfactory to all?” *“‘Absolutely,”’ agreed Knowlton. ‘“Espe- cially the eats and the moving. Hello, who’s this chap? Wants to see you, I guess, José.” At the doorway stood Hatun. His heavy eyes showed that he had been faithful to his trust and lain sleepless all night. “Ah, yes. I was forgetting. A visitor dropped in last night—a fivero who seemed to have come far. I honored my guest by allowing him to rest with the wizard, and set this man to hear anything which might be said between them. Probably it is not worth listening to, but I shall hear it now.” He beckoned to Hatun. “M-hm. Well, I’m going to wash my frowsy face. If there’s any new scandal in Jivero society, let me in on it when I get back. Coming, Rod?” He strode away toward the creek, McKay following. Hatun entered, reported that the pair of prisoners had talked in the night, and proceeded to give an unemotional Adventure résumé of their conversation. Tim and Nuné presently lounged out. José stood lazily smoking and patiently listening. The night-walker, it seemed, had come from a Jivero settlement some days distant at the southwest. It had been raided by Huambizas, and, so far as the youth knew, he was the only male of his tribe to escape. He had been wounded in the leg, but man- aged to evade pursuers by swimming a creek and climbing a tree, where he re- mained concealed until the raiders were gone. With great difficulty he had come to this place to attach himself to the Yana Yacu tribe. Arriving at night, he had intended to wait outside the chief’s house until morning, but found himself caught by the dreaded White Ones of the East. Having thus made clear his reason for coming, the youth had then asked the wizard how it came that the White Ones held the place, and had received a fairly truthful answer. Then the wizard, anxious to save his face before even this wretched representative of his nation, had explained his own captivity by declaring that his magic had made the enemy unable to kill him, and that now he remained only because he was thinking a spell on the White Ones, by which they would presently be destroyed. Hatun paused. José, who had heard with languid interest, nodded and _half- turned away. But Hatun had not yet done; there had been more talk, in which the wizard had extracted from the newcomer all possible information about the Huam- biza raid; and this the sleepy spy now recited. As he went on, his king began to grow tense. He swung back to face the narrator. His eyes burned into those of Hatun. The half-smoked bark roll dropped from his fingers. When the tale ended he stood breathing hard and poised as if about to spring. “Dios mio!” he muttered. “That cursed bird of the night spoke truth! Alma per- dida? Weare all lost souls if——” Outside sounded the approaching feet of his partners returning from the creek. Knowlton laughed at some jest, and Tim’s unmusical voice broke out in a ditty: “The Sixty-Ninth went over the top, Pa-a-arley-vool The Sixty-Ninth went over the top, Pa-a-arley-vool The Sixty——” COMmMiclboookks.G© 5}