Tiger River

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CHAP. PAGE

Chapter I

AT the edge of the jungle a rifle roared.

/-% High up among the branches of a tall buttress-rooted tree—more than a hun¬ dred feet above the soggy ground—a big, red, bearded monkey lurched out into space. Head¬ long he fell. A swift rip of breaking under¬ brush, a dull thump, and he lay lifeless on the earth.

At the base of another tree a man quietly levered a fresh cartridge into his gun barrel. For a few seconds he stood motionless, weapon up, eyes sweeping the surrounding tree butts and bush clumps. Then he let the rifle sink and, velvet-footed, stepped forward.

“So, Sehor Cotomono,” he said softly, “you will make your hideous howling, eh, to tell all the world that I am here? You will yell to the tigres of this Tiger Water to come and tear Jose Martinez, yes? Too late you learn that it does not pay to make too much noise with the mouth.”

A sardonic smile played under his fierce black mustache. Even as the words slipped from his tongue his gaze lifted from the motionless animal and once more plumbed the vistas about him. Tall, sinewy, hawk-nosed, bold-eyed, red-ker¬ chiefed, belted with a long machete, alert and wary as the great hunting-cat he had just men¬ tioned—he looked a buccaneer chieftain ma¬ rooned in a tropic wilderness, poised to fight man, beast, or demon.

A minute passed. No sound came, except the ceaseless rustle of unseen small life creeping about in the shadows during the hot hours of mid¬ day. With a lightning shift of manner he relaxed.

“Hah!” he growled. “Jose, you are over¬ careful. You have hardly left the Amazon— you have only just landed on the Tigre Yacu— and yet you stand as if you were far upstream and had shot a head-hunter instead of a poor cotomono. You disgust me, Jose mio. Come, little howler of the heights, and toast your toes at my fire.”

In one motion he swooped up the dead mon¬ key and whirled on his heel. A few strides to the rear, and he halted at water: clear water, about seventy yards broad, flowing southeast, at whose margin floated a small canoe. Some rods downstream the limpid little river ended, merg¬ ing into a turbid yellow flood rolling eastward

the mighty Amazon, here known as the Maranon.

Two swift glances he shot to right and left— one upstream, one out at the tawny monarch of rivers. Only empty water, glaring under the sun, met his gaze. Leaning his rifle against a handy tree butt, he drew his machete and sliced some tindery bamboo into kindling. A few deft slashes with the same blade dressed the monkey for roasting. Then, adding more fuel, he squatted and concentrated his attention on th<; cooking of his meal.

A stiff breeze came rocketing down the dearwater stream, snatching the smoke of his fire and flinging it playfully down to the great river. And almost at once, as if the tang of smoke and the savory odor of broiling meat had evoked life from the depths of that river, something came crawling into the yellow vacancy at the end of the jungle shores. Foot by foot, yard by yard, it nosed its clumsy way out of the west until its whole length floated there, only a little way from the land. There, for a moment, it hung motionless.

A grotesque, misshapen monster of the jungle, it seemed: a low-bodied thing some thirty feet long, with half a dozen short, rigid legs on each side; a humpy creature with a small square bump in the middle, a big round one near its tail, and more than a dozen smaller protuberances along its back. Presently its little legs moved back-< ward, lifted, came forward—flashing glints of sunlight from its wet feet—and slid backward again. Its blunt nose turned up the clear water. It grew larger, crawling toward the spot whence the smoke rolled. And the rough little breeze, as if it had done its duty in summoning the riverbeast, passed and was gone, leaving the smoke to rise straight above the squatting man like a telltale finger.

The man did not see the thing approach Around him stood waist-high grass, which now, in his doubled-up position, rose just above his head and shut off from his view all but the firq and his meat. The river-creature advanced quietly, as if a bit wary. Fifty feet off shore it paused. From it burst a roaring voice.

“Hey there!”

The man in the grass started, spun about, lengthened himself toward his rifle, and in one second was behind the tree with gun cocked. His narrowed eyes stabbed through the sun-glare at the clumsy thing which had slipped up so smoothly within pistol-shot of him. In one tight squint he saw what it was.

A Peruvian garretea, or river-canoe, with a pile? of supplies corded in the middle, a curve-roofed cabin at the stern, twelve copper-skinned paddlers and a steersman, and four khaki-shirted white men: that was the monster. The second glance of the lurking Jose told him that all the white men were deeply tanned and well bearded; that two of the beards were black, one yellow, and one un¬ mistakably red. Then the voice spoke again.

“Come on out, feller. We ain’t huntin’ no¬ body. I see ye got a bandanna on yer bean, so ye’d oughter be a white man. You savvy United States?”

The eyes of Jose widened.

“Por Dios !” he muttered. “Is it—it is not-— yet the voice is the same! And a red beard-”

He stepped forth, rifle still ready but not aimed.

“Si, I savvy, senor,” he answered. “Who comes?”

“Friends,” clipped another voice. “Any objec¬ tion to our tying up here? Want to sell that meat?”

“It is my dinner, senor, and not for sale,” Jose replied coolly, still squinting at the boat. “Tying up here is as you wish. I do not own this river.”

“All right. We’ll shoot our own meat. Paddle!”

At the command the paddlers swayed in unison. The garretea floated nearer. Then out broke the first voice.

“Say, cap, lookit the guy! Ain’t he a dead ringer for ol’ Hozy, the lad that was with us last year on that there, now, Javaree river down

below? By gosh, I wonder- Say, feller,

mebbe this is a sassy question, but what’s yer name?”

The speaker was the red-bearded, red-headed man: a broad-chested, muscular fellow whose blue eyes peered keenly from under a cupped hand and whose wide face glowed with eager¬ ness. Into the hawk face of Jose flashed the light of certainty. His teeth gleamed and his rifle sank. In three strides he was at the water’s edge.

“It is the Sehor Tim!” he cried. “I thought —but I was not sure. And El Capitan McKay —Senor Knowlton—si, yo soy, amigos! It is I, Jose Martinez, at your service!”

“Well, by thunder!” laughed the blond man. “Welcome to our company, Jose, old top! I’ll pump your arm off as soon as I can get out of this blooming boat. Give you a drink too—the occasion calls for a libation. Tim, break out a bottle of hooch.”

“Right ye are, looey. Hozy, ol’ sock, ye sure are a sight for sore eyes—bokoo jolly, tray beans, like them frogs use to say in France. Oo-la-la! Look out there, ye gobs! Timmy Ryan is landin’, toot sweet.”

And land he did—crowding between the In¬ dian paddlers and launching himself over the bow as it touched shore. As his boots plunked into the mud his right hand seized that of Jose and wrung it in a mighty grip.

“Ye oP son-of-a-gun!” he chuckled. “Ye ol* slashin’, tearin’, hip-shootin’ death’s-head! Jest as homely and full o’ cussedness as ever, ain’t ye? Mind the time we blowed them Red Bone cannibals all to glory? Gosh, that was a reg’lar scrap, I’ll tell the world!”

“I remember it well,” laughed Jose. “But you need not break my hand, amigo. The Senor Knowlton seems to wish to use it.”

The blond man too had landed, and now he shouldered the exuberant Tim aside and pro¬ ceeded to make good his promise to pump the Spaniard’s arm, meanwhile giving him a running fire of banter. After him, cool and unhurried, came a tall, black-bearded, wide-shouldered man whose set face and bleak gray eyes now were softened by a welcoming smile. Last of all de¬ barked a stocky man of medium height, with hat pulled well down over his brow.

In contrast to the red Tim and the blond Knowlton, the blackbeard spoke no word as his hand grasped that of Jose; but his brief, hearty grip and direct gaze spoke what his tongue did not. And to him Jose gave a look and a tone of deeper respect than that accorded to his predecessors.

“Capitan!” he bowed. Then, as their hands parted, he turned suddenly away. When he swung back his bold eyes were a trifle misty and his smile strained.

“Pardon the weakness, senores,” he said. “It is sudden, this meeting. And there are few men who care to take the hand of Jose Martinez, outlaw—though there are many who would take his head.”

“Grrrumph! Let ’em come and git it—they’ll have a fat time bumpin’ ye off while this gang’s here, Hozy!” erupted Tim. “We don’t give a tinker’s dam if ye’re a dozen outlaws. Ye’re a square guy and ye’ve got no yeller streak, and we dang well know it. Besides which, there ain’t no law in this neck o’ the woods, unless they lugged some in since the last time we was here, which I sure hope they ain’t. They’s too much law in the world now, most of it made by crooks. But say, ain’t ye got a word for Dave Rand here ? Ye’d oughtet remember him.”

He motioned toward the last man ashore, who stood impassively waiting.

“Rand?” echoed Jose. “Senor Rand I do

not : - Ho! Por Dios! Is this the man

who was the Raposa—the Wild Dog of the Javary?”

“The same,” answered Rand himself. As he spoke he lifted his broad hat, revealing greengray eyes and dark hair in which an odd white mark stood out above one ear.

“The man who was a crazy captive of the Red Bone Indians,” he went on, “and whom you last saw as a naked, painted wreck being dragged home to the States by McKay and Knowlton and Tim here. No wonder you didn’t recognize me. Shake ?”

“Indeed yes, senor, with pride.” And the final handshake was completed. “But how come you here in South America again—and, of all places, on the banks of this dangerous water? You had best move on quickly, comrades, all of you.”

Tim interrupted.

“Aw, who’s scairt of a li’l brook like this? And say, feller, yer meat’s burnin’. Git out o’ me way and I’ll save it. We got to eat.”

Jose wheeled, pounced, retrieved the blackened meat, and gazed at it ruefully.

“A third of my dinner gone,” he grumbled. “But this cotomono was a big one, and we can each get a few mouthfuls of fresh meat from him. Your Indians can find meat of their own if they will hunt back from the water.”

But the Indians seemed to want no meat. They did not even show any intention of land¬ ing. Every man of them had remained in the boat, and, though they sniffed wistfully at the odor of the cooking, their eyes were continually watching the thick tropical tangle near at hand. Uneasy mutterings went among them, and re¬ peatedly they grunted two words:

“Tigre Yacu.”

The northerners stared at them. Jose, the jungle rover, alone seemed to understand. He gave the paddlers a brief glance, nodded, and let his own gaze go roving upstream.

“What ails them guys?” wondered Tim. “Is this place ha’nted or somethin’?”

“This, Senor Tim, is the Tiger Water,” Jose ex¬ plained, “and it is bad country. Above here-”

IO TIGER RIVER

He stopped abruptly. Across his words smote a dread sound.

From the jungle behind them broke a cough¬ ing roar: a hoarse, harsh, malignant note of menace which struck both brown and white men like a blow. It was the voice of the South American tiger, savage king of the jungle, eater of men; the voice of the Tigre Yacu, on whose banks lurked unknown things; the voice of Death.

Chapter II

F OR a moment the jungle and the river were still. No man moved; and the rus¬ tle of small things in bush and branches was hushed as if all life held its breath. Then, calmly, tall Captain McKay spoke.

“Sounds hungry. A hungry jaguar is bad medicine. Get aboard, men, and we’ll shove out a little. Come along, Jose. Want to talk to you.”

Jose glowered into the tangle as if half minded to go seeking the tigre. But when Knowlton seconded the invitation he shrugged and nodded.

“Climb in,” said the blond man. “Nothing to stay here for. The Indians won’t come ashore, your meat is cooked, and we can talk better where that brute won’t drop on some¬ body’s back. Besides,” with a laugh, “we have to dig up that bottle I spoke of.”

“Your last reason is much the best one, sehor,” Jose grinned. “Now that I think of it, my throat is most dry.”

Back into the garretea the white men clam¬ bered, and at once the paddlers shoved off. But for McKay’s sharp commands, they would have ii driven the boat back to the Amazon. As it was, they reluctantly stopped work after a few strokes, and a moment later a sixty-pound weight plunged over the bow. Fifteen yards out, the boat swung at anchor.

Four of the whites went aft to the shelter of the shady hoop-roofed cabin, which rose im¬ portantly from a ten-foot palm-bark deck. Tim, the fifth, halted amidships and sought something among the supplies, straightening up presently with a quart bottle on which the Indians fixed a longing gaze. Not until the red-bearded man entered the cabin did the aborigines take their eyes from his liquid treasure. Then they silently moved forward and made a fire in a big clay pot in the bow—the “galley” of their crude ship.

“Wal, Hozy, oF-timer, here’s how!” pro¬ claimed Tim, flourishing the bottle. “Reg’lar stuff, this is—some o’ that there, now, Annie Sadder, double distilled and a hundred proof. Take a husky gargle of it before ye eat. Ye git more of a jolt on an empty stummick. Shoot!”

Jose shot. The anisado gurgled down his throat like water. When he handed back the bottle his eyes glistened and a fourth of the liquor had disappeared from mortal view.

“Gosh!” muttered Tim. “Half a pint to one swaller! Ye got me beat. But I’ll do me best.”

Measuring off another half pint with a thumb¬ nail, he opened his capacious mouth, nipped his nose between his free thumb and forefinger, and let the bottle gurgle. Presently he gasped, shot the bottle to McKay, seized a gourd, and seemed to dive overboard; but his legs and body remained on the deck, and the gourd came up full of river water. Several gulps, and he arose, breathing hard.

“That’s what we come up here for, anyways —clean water,” he alibied. “So I’m gittin’ mine now. That Ammyzon water is awright if ye let it settle, but she sure needs some settlin’. Don’t ye want a chaser, too, Hozy? No? Then eat somethin’ quick, before ye git vi’lent. We don’t want to have to light ye.”

But Jose only grinned and licked his mus¬ tache, bowing to Knowlton as the latter saluted him with the bottle and took a short pull. Mc¬ Kay drank without a quiver. Rand barely touched the glass to his lips, then replaced the cork.

“Hard case, this feller Rand,” winked Tim. “Last time he got holt of a bottle he swallered the whole dang thing and then chewed up the cork for a chaser. Right after that he sat down hard and the bottle busted inside him, so he has to go easy a few days. If ye don’t believe me, kick him, and ye’ll hear the glass jingle.”

“You’ll be more likely to hear the angels sing¬ ing,” countered the green-eyed man, with a tight smile. “Fact is, Jose, I’m not drinking any more. Drink got me into hell once. Maybe you remember.”

The Peruvian nodded.

“Si. It was drinking which got you into a fight at Manaos some years ago when you were traveling up the Amazon. You struck down a man—a German—so hard that you believed him killed, and you hid on a steamer and fled up the river. Then you went into the wild cannibal country on the Rio Javary, fought another Ger¬ man—Schwandorf—who tried to make you steal Indian women for his slave trade, and were shot in the head by that man. The bullet crazed you, and for years you wandered among the canni¬ bals, who let you live only because they feared you. The Raposa—the Wild Dog of the jun¬ gle! I heard of you long before I ever saw you.”

“And if it hadn’t been for Mac and Merry Knowlton and Tim, who came hunting me and knocked sense back into my head with a gun butt, I’d be there yet,” Rand acquiesced grimly.

Jose nodded again.

“Es verdad. But that time is past, and you are a strong man once more. Yet I am much astonished to see you again in the jungle. If I have it right, these sehores came seeking you be¬ cause you were heir to a great estate and they were commissioned to find you. A North Ameri¬ can millionaire is the last kind of man I should expect to see here, even if he had not suffered here as you have.”

Rand smiled wryly.

“But I don’t happen to be a millionaire. I haven’t even a million cents, not to mention dollars.”

“Por Dios! There were two million dollars —did you not say so, capitan? And that was hardly a year ago! How have you spent so much money in so short a time?”

“Didn’t spend a cent of it. Never had it to spend.. It’s this way:

“My uncle, Philip Dawson, died. His son, Paul, who fought in the great war, was supposed to have been killed in action in the Argonne Forest. So the Dawson estate was legally mine —for a while.

“But Paul wasn’t killed. He was badly wounded, captured, and treated none too well; and he got aphasia—forgot who he was. The War Department mixed up things, recorded him as dead, and shipped home the body of some other soldier as his. A lot of those blunders happened in the war.

“Just about the time these chaps were finding me down here, a friend of Paul’s found him over there. He was working as a field hand, and even thought he was a German—he had traveled a lot as a boy and could talk German as easily as English; so when he found himself among German people and didn’t know who he was or how he came there, he thought he belonged there. Of course his friend got him back to the States at once, and by the time I showed up he was there in the hands of specialists who were bring¬ ing his memory back to him. So that let me out.”

Jose carved a section of monkey haunch. Slic¬ ing it with careful exactness, he passed portions to his companions. All fell to chewing.

“But I thtill do not thee, thenor,” lisped Jose then, his mouth nearly full, “why you return to thith plathe.”

“We’re partners, chasing the rainbow,” Knowlton vouchsafed after swallowing his mor¬ sel. “We three were well rewarded for getting Dave back, even though he wasn’t the heir; the estate had to make good its contract with us. Dave wasn’t broke, either—he had some money of his own in a couple of banks. So we got rest¬ less, pooled our money, and came down to the Andes to make ourselves billionaires by finding the treasures of the Incas or anything else lying around loose.

“But we were out of luck. We poked around the upper Maranon awhile and tried a couple of other prospects, but got nothing but hard knocks. So we got this boat and came along down. Thought we’d take a whirl at the Napo coun¬ try, just below here. Loads of gold in the Napo, we hear; Indians pick it out of the river bed, and so on. Want to join us and try your luck?”

Jose did not answer at once. His black eyes searched the face of each man as if seeking some sign of derision or amusement. He found none.

“You jest, senor,” he said presently.

“Not a bit of it. What do you say, Rod— Tim—Dave? Is Jose a welcome member of this gang?”

“I’ll say he is!” rumbled Tim. The other two nodded decisively.

The Peruvian’s face glowed. But he shook his head.

“I thank you, senores, but I cannot. I have no such outfit as you, I have no money, I am not one of you but Jose Martinez—outlaw. I could not be on an equal footing-”

“That’s rot, Jose,” McKay cut in. “If we didn’t want you we wouldn’t ask you. Money and outfit are immaterial. You have something we lack—intimate knowledge of this region. Put your knowledge in the pot with our outfit, and you owe nothing. Coming in?”

Again Jose held his tongue before answering. Pride gleamed in his eyes, but those eyes went up the Tiger River as if visioning something the others could not see. Absently he rolled and smoked a cigarette. Not until he snapped the charred butt overboard did he speak.

“Senores,” he said abruptly, “the tale of gold in the Napo is old. Too old. Everybody knows it. True, gold is there: gold dust washed from the Llanganati mountains of Ecuador. But men have known of it for hundreds of years. Many i8 expeditions have gone in after it. Some have come out, some have not. Savages—accidents— fever—there are many white men’s bones in the Napo jungle. There will be many more.

“Gold is there, yes. But why journey to the Napo, and hundreds of miles up the Napo—it is eight hundred miles long, amigos—to seek a thing which is nearer at hand? Why poke about a river where the workings are known and covered by lighting men, when before you opens a stream where you can take anything you find?”

The Americans started. Their glances darted up the Tigre Yacu.

“You mean-” Knowlton began.

“Sssst!” Jose hissed warningly.

Two of the crew were approaching, bearing salt fish and hot coffee to their patrones. The Peruvian eyed them narrowly, but none gave sign of having heard or understood the talk. Stol¬ idly they placed the food on the raised deck, turned, and went back to the bow.

“Speak on,” said McKay. “They know no English except a few words like ‘paddle,’ and so on.”

“Bueno. You guess it—I mean this Tigre Yacu.

“Behold, companeros. It is but a little brook, yes, if one thinks of the great Maranon or the Napo. Yet it runs a long way up—one hundred fifty miles or more—and it is deep; canoes can travel far on it. And it heads between two long mountain spurs, which form the split end of the Cordillera del Pastassa. And that cordillera, amigos, is itself a spur from those same Llanganati mountains whence comes the gold of the Napo and its tributary river, the Curaray!

“See. It is thus.”

Dipping a finger into his coffee, he drew on the bark deck a figure somewhat like a crude, elongated letter “h.” Between the legs of this symbol he traced another line running southeast.

“The long line is the Cordillera del Pastassa, the curved one its spur,” he explained. “And the third line is this Tigre Yacu. North of this cordillera runs the Curaray, which, as I say, bears gold. Some of its tributaries flow from this cordillera. Who shall say that the cordil¬ lera, an offshoot of the Llanganati, is not burst¬ ing with gold? Who shall say that much—or all—of the gold of the Curaray does not come from this cordillera instead of the Llanganati? Madre de Dios! Quien sabe?”

His face was flaming now. And, looking into his hot black eyes, the blue and the gray and the green eyes of the northerners suddenly flared with the reckless light of the gold lure. Rainbowchasers all, hardy, venturesome, fearless, they were of that red-blooded breed which plunges straight into the jaws of death if within those jaws lies a prize worth the daring. In one flash¬ ing instant the projected journey to the Napo vanished from their minds like wind-blown mist. The Napo was old. The Tigre Yacu, unknown, mysterious, had caught them in a spell.

It was McKay, canny and controlled, who spoke first.

“If there’s gold here, why has it been passed by?”

One laconic word answered him.

“Jiveros.”

“Hm. The head-hunters! Thought we were past their country.”

“Oof! The Jiveros?” blurted Tim. “The fellers that shrink yer head to the size of an orange ? Them guys ?’ ’

“Them guys,” Jose echoed, with a slight smile. “Their country is farther west, as el capitan says: the rivers Pastassa, Morona, Santiago; but they know no boundaries and they roam far. It is more than possible that even now some of them lurk yonder in the bush, watching us. Wise men do not go up these rivers west of the Napo —only fools like Jose.

“That was why I hesitated so long before tell¬ ing you of the treasure that may be up this stream. To risk my own life is nothing; to lure my friends into a death trap with me is much. But—we were together among the southern can¬ nibals not long ago. So I tell you.”

He gulped some coffee. At once he went on:

“Nor is that all. Somewhere up this stream is something—I know not what—which makes men mad. I am not the first fool who has thought of gold up here and gone after it. How many men have gone in here I know not. But until recently no man has come out.

“Two weeks ago came one Rafael Pardo down to Iquitos. A hard, reckless man he was; a killer and other things. I say he was. He no longer is.

“Months ago he went up this Tigre Yacu, boasting that he feared no man, beast, God or devil. Days ago he came back, naked, bearded, filthy, raving. But with him he brought gold. A hide bag he had, and it was heavy with nug¬ gets. Yes, nuggets, not dust. His skin was seamed with scars like those of a whip. His toes were gone—every one cut off. How he walked through the jungle, how he lived without weapons, I do not know. But he came—and he brought gold.”

“Did anyone learn what he had been through?” asked Rand.

“No. He was utterly mad. He screamed frightful things, but such as made no sense. Then some one stole his gold. When he found it gone he ran about yelling, fell down frothing, and died.”

For a long minute there was silence. All peered up the stream. The flush of excitement had died from their faces, but no indecision or fear showed in them. Their jaws were set and their eyes narrowed as if they were sizing up an enemy. And they were. In each man’s mind flamed a challenge to the river of missing men.

Then, all at once, their heads jerked to the right. The Indians in the bow had risen from their squat and were facing toward the spot where the Peruvian’s little fire had smoked, and where his canoe still lay. The blaze now had died. And through the waist-high grass some¬ thing large, something stealthy, was creeping from the jungle.

Chapter III

R EADY rifles slid out from the cabin. From four of them sounded the quiet snicks of safeties being thrown off. The hammer of Jose’s big-bulleted repeater clicked dully and poised at full cock.

“The shot is mine, amigos,” he reminded them. So, of the five guns, his was the only one to take aim.

The telltale grass stood still. For a breath¬ less minute no sign of movement was visible. Slowly then it swayed again above the creeping thing, marking another few inches of advance. Crash!

Jose’s muzzle jumped. Blue smoke drifted along the water. The grass shook. From it burst a screech of appalling fury.

The dense growth of green split. At the water’s edge a great black cat creature poised, eyes glaring, fangs gleaming, tail thrash¬ ing the grass like a maddened snake. On one ebony shoulder a streak of red flowed and widened.

“Hah-yah!” mocked Jose, his own teeth bared in a tigerish snarl. “Here am I, you devil! Come to me!”

The devil came.

In one leap it shot ten feet from the bank. Its big paws, with long claws unsheathed, com¬ menced swimming almost before its powerful body splashed. Eyes fixed in malevolent hate on the man who had wounded and mocked it, teeth still bared in a soundless snarl, the brute lunged straight for the boat.

From the Indians broke guttural gasps of fear. From the white men sounded short growls. From four high-power rifles cracked whip-like reports. From the Peruvian’s black-powder gun another blunt roar thumped out.

The black tiger, suddenly motionless, sank in a red welter.

“Guess it was just as well that we did our talking out here,” Knowlton observed. “Sorry to horn into your party, Jose, but I just had to slam a bullet into that fellow.”