The king of No Man's Land

Chapter I Men Of The Bush

T HE head-hunter was consulting the devil.

Alone in the jungle, his back against the base of a colossal tree, his glassy eyes fixed in a vacant stare, he listened to the satanic counsel of the death demon of the Jiveros. At his feet lay a calabash containing the dregs of the coffeecolored bark decoction with which he had raised that malevolent spirit. Beside him, leaning against one of the tall buttress roots among which he squatted, rose a straight, slender tube, his blowgun. Against his hip hung his short dart quiver, cotton ball, and poison gourd. The wish and the weapons for murder were his; and now he was receiving the diabolical approbation always sought by his people before an assassina¬ tion—and always accorded.

“Kill him!” exhorted the demon. “It will be easy. Call him out—then shoot him. It is right that he should die, for he has four wives and you have only two. Then you will have six women, and a new head to shrink, and respect from your fellows.”

The vacant eyes did not flicker, nor did the lips move. But the drugged brain visioned the shadowy grin of the fiend, and the crazed con¬ sciousness answered without speech.

“But he has brothers who will take my head in turn, and take his women, and my own, too.”

“No!” disputed the infernal adviser. “Why stop at killing him alone? Kill them also, one by one, as fast as you can shrink the heads—for you must not neglect to make the heads small, and you can do only one at a time. So you shall have more heads and more women. The young¬ est brother has no women yet, but his head is a head. Think of it! More women than the fingers on both your hands, and one—two— three—four fine heads! And then nobody will laugh at you because you lost that white-man head.”

The dilated eyes narrowed slightly as a scowl lowered the black brows.

“Bad luck has been upon me since the head of the white was lost,” was the soundless confes¬ sion. “But how could I know that the head would be stolen while I was away on a hunt? If only I could get a white-man head with red hair! That would be better than the black-haired one I lost.”

The demon laughed jeeringly.

“You are not likely to get another white-man head soon. You must kill that Indian with four wives. You must! And then his brothers. It is so easy—you will do it in this way. Be quiet and I will tell you.”

The weird dialogue went on. The scattered splotches of sunlight on the forest floor crawled slowly toward the motionless figure in the dim root recess. Little breezes came and went. Somewhere a toucan yelped over and over: “Piapoco! piapoco! piapoco!” High above, in¬ visible through the thick roof of branches and leaves, flying macaws screamed harshly. The narcotized senses of the squatting aborigine per¬ ceived none of these things. The Jivero demon¬ draught, which may grip its devotee for five hours or more, still held him in thrall.

Even when one of the creeping sun splashes reached his feet and began ascending his legs he did not move. The rising light revealed mus¬ cular calves and haunches; stocky, deep-chested torso; thick neck encircled by a collarlike neck¬ lace of seeds and tiger claws; heavy jaw, hard mouth, flaring nose; snaky eyes, low brow, long black hair. In the hair were a few bright toucan feathers; from it, at the sides, projected ears thrust through with sections of wild cane which dangled to the shoulders. His build was that of a brute. His expression, as he still talked with the fiend he had called up, was that of a reptile.

Limned against the gray-green tree as by a spotlight, he was a copper statue of abysmal savagery.

A flash of orange and red darted athwart the near green, followed by another and another. They wheeled, halted, poised on limbs, and be¬ came toucans. A moment of turning their hugebeaked heads this way and that—then they burst into raucous derision of the man below.

t( Piapoco! piapoco!” they yapped, hopping and thrusting their beaks as they yelled. Their screams, so near him, jarred on the dulled nerves of the savage. His opaque eyes flicked up at the birds. One hand stole automatically toward his blowgun—but did not grasp it. The devil was insistently recalling his attention, and the hand sank.

“You will do it so!” adjured the evil spirit. “And then the head—cut down the back of the scalp—out comes the skull—then the pot and the hot sand-”

“ Piapoco! piapoco! piapoco! piapoco!” railed the impudent chorus above.

Then, abruptly, it stopped. The big bills turned downward—but not toward the head¬ hunter. The black-red-gold bodies hopped around, the bold black eyes peered into the tangle—then three flashes shot again across the green. The birds were gone.

Only a Jivero whose instincts were numbed could fail to interpret that sudden silence and departure. But this man did fail. His eyes moved upward again, but in a vacant way. When they dropped they saw nothing new in the laby¬ rinth of tree and vine. Nor did the protruding ears hear a tiny rustle among the leaves beyond.

For minutes the rustling continued—faint, elusive, less audible than the sough of lofty leaves moving in a breeze. Then it died. No other sound came save the far-off snarling roar of a cotomono monkey. The near-by bush seemed to hold no life. But the noisy birds did not return.

Among the shadows where that rustle had sounded something moved. A bent, hunched thing, it was; a crouching thing that stole slowly, smoothly nearer to the devil-dreamer. Leaves which touched it slipped soundlessly from its bare skin. Little pools left by the daily rain gave no plash as the advancing feet passed through them. No twig crackled, no branch swished back from the creeping form. Yet it made no apparent effort to avoid noise, gave no glance at the footing or the surrounding growth. It moved with the instinctive stealth of the born jungle prowler, the utter silence of a drifting ghost. When it stopped, still crouching and peering through the leafy screen at the spell¬ bound murderer among the roots, it had given not the slightest token of its presence.

For a long moment it stood there—a black¬ haired, light-skinned, maroon-clouted shadow among the shadows; a jungle man like the Jivero, yet altogether unlike him. The new¬ comer’s bare body appeared more clean of skin and of build; his hair was not long and unkempt, but cut straight around at the level of the ear tips. He looked more fit, more alert, more in¬ telligent than the killer beyond him. Yet his face, as he scanned the other, held a ferocity no less deadly than that of the shrinker of human heads.

The menace of that narrow-eyed stare pene¬ trated to the inmost consciousness of the squat¬ ting savage. Where bird warning and bush warning had passed unheeded, the primordial perception of unseen danger inherited from countless jungle-dwelling ancestors now gripped his brain. The voice of the demon died out. The blank eyes focused on the bush. The dan¬ gling right hand lifted and moved again toward the blowgun. As his fingers curled around the weapon the Jivero lurched up on his feet.

The leaves before him jumped, smitten by a swift-rising hand. A steel-tipped shaft poised, hissed forward. Before the Jivero could move —before he could even breathe—the steel tore through him. He reeled back—coughed once— hung limp, nailed to the tree.

“Hnh!” grunted the man in the bush, his grim mouth stretching gloatingly. Then, turn¬ ing, he grunted again—a subdued, wordless sound which did not carry far, yet brought immediate response. The rustling recommenced, more loudly now. Through the tangle came other figures in file. The spearman stepped out, walked over to the transfixed head-hunter, and stood in the attitude of a showman about to exhibit some marvel.

The bush screen parted again, forced open by rough hands. Into the little clear space emerged a hawk-faced, fierce-mustached Spaniard. After him trooped more Indians.

One swift survey of the scene the white man took, noting the impaled savage, the blowgun which had fallen from the lifeless hand, the gourd with its remaining drug. With a tigerish pounce he caught up the calabash. An instant of sniffing, then he nodded and tossed it aside.

“Is this all?” he jeered, jerking a thumb at the pierced figure against the tree trunk. “One, drunk on devil bark? A child could kill him.”

The spearman’s face clouded like that of a boy who, expecting praise, has been ridiculed. But he answered, quietly:

“All, king. But Jivero is Jivero.”

A swift grin flashed over the Spanish face, like lightning across a thundercloud.

“Hah! Well said!” he approved. “A Jivero is a Jivero, and we spare none. And, por Dios! he was not so drunk—he stood and would fight, hah? And you nailed him up. A good cast, hombre! No accursed shrinker of heads es¬ capes from a White One!”

Now the spearman grinned proudly as he turned to withdraw his weapon from the grip of the wood. In the faces of the other light¬ skinned warriors his pride was mirrored. Had not this king of theirs, in praising him, praised them also? It was so. All eyes centered on the sinewy white, who looked back at them with half-affectionate, half-sardonic approbation.

A formidable array they made, those jungle men, though not many of them could press into the small open space. Every one of them, from clean-cut hair to ground-gripping toes, was a natural athlete: lithe muscled, firm jawed, steady eyed, poised with the ready ease born of alert strength. And if their vigorous physiques alone had not warned of their fighting power, their weapons would have made the most truculent antagonists wary. Strong bows and big quivers of war arrows, heavy hardwood clubs, short throwing spears, and longer lances—these, deadly enough in themselves, were not all. Every second man wore, slung under the left arm by a diagonal bark strip from the right shoulder, a keen machete. Every third man carried in the same fashion a hide cartridge pouch, and, in his right hand, a big-bored car¬ bine.

The longest gun in the little army was that of the sun-bronzed white man, little whiter than themselves. A full-sized, full-magazined re¬ peater, this was, and battered and worn as if by long service; in fact, it looked much older than the carbines, which also showed signs of considerable use. It hung in its owner’s fist as if it were an integral part of his arm; a deadly appendage which had been there for years, and without which he would feel crippled. If he was truly a king, he was a fighting ruler. And, king or not, there could be no doubt that he had long been a jungle denizen. His clothing proved that.

Unlike his men, he wore shirt, belt, and stagged trousers. But the garments had never been fashioned in a town, nor had the cloth been woven from threads of cotton or wool. It was made from llanchama tree-bark and dyed purplish red with achote, as were the clouts of his followers; and the belt was no leather strap, but a braid of palm-fiber cords. He had neither hat nor boots. Utterly devoid of all insignia of regal rank—without even a crown of feathers—this must be a poor king.

Yet his next movement showed him to be an overlord. He lifted an imperious hand, and out from the surrounding knot of men stepped one whose bearing proclaimed him a chiefj an older man than the Spaniard, yet one whose eyes showed calm respect for his junior. He halted and waited.

“We are near,” asserted he of the hawk face. “This Jivero would not go far to take his drink.”

The Indian nodded as if hearing something most obvious. He glanced up at a slanting sun ray; followed it down to where it rested on the trunk of a young tree; moved to it; laid a thumb on its upper edge, measured off a short space on the bark above it with a finger; looked steadily at his commander.

“A short half hour/’ the latter translated. “Bueno! Then more Jiveros go howling to hell! Look now to the guns, capitan.”

The chief turned and growled something at the gun-bearers. Each levered his breech bolt partly back, peered within the magazine at the ready top cartridge, clicked his gun shut. From farther back in the bush, like soft echoes, sounded the subdued clatter of other rifles opening and closing in the hands of unseen men.

The spearman, who now had retrieved his wet javelin from the tree, walked stolidly past the Spaniard. The latter slapped him lightly on a bare shoulder.

“Good scouting!” he approved. “You shall go on, flanking as before.”

The scout’s chest swelled and his eyes gleamed again, but he spoke no word. Into the green tangle he slipped, soft footed. The others, with a final glance at the body huddled where it had dropped from the tree, fell into file and moved back into the labyrinth. In a few minutes only the Spaniard was left, gazing hard-faced at the thing his flanker had speared.

THE KING OF NO MAN’S LAND n

“Hah!” he chuckled. “While you talked with your devil of death he let death come to you! Even a Jivero could laugh at that joke. I will tell your friends, if any still live after I— Por Dios! What is that?”

Muffled by the intervening jungle, from some¬ where off at the left broke three gunshots. The listening man’s face twisted in sudden rage. He leaped forward.

“The fools! Some have gone on and opened fire-”

Three more explosions sounded in a swift rip. The infuriated commander halted as if petrified.

“But no! Those are not our guns! Neither are they Jivero muskets-”

The staccato reports burst into a ragged but steady crackle. With them merged a few dull black-powder barks and a noise like a savage chorus of hate.

“Madre de Dios! Those are high-powered rifles! White men fight there!”

A headlong crash into the bush, and he was gone.

Chapter II Fighters Three

B ACK to back, crouching between a couple of robust trees and facing outward, three white men fought doggedly and desperately against foes half seen amid the encompassing screen of leaves.

They had poor targets—a bare brown arm hurling a spear; a glimmer of steel as a muzzle¬ loading rifle slid around a tree trunk; an arrow streaking from a clump of broad-leaved plan¬ tain; a dodging movement among a tangle of lianas. But they were taking heavy toll. Though badly outnumbered and totally sur¬ rounded, they shot with the grim coolness of veterans and the deadly accuracy of expert gun¬ men; and at every crack of their bolt-action rifles something fell heavily in the bushes. Each was shooting back and forth along the arc before him, and the three arcs combined to form a circle of leaden death.

But the bullet-riddled enemy yielded no ground. The jungle seemed spawning fresh warriors to replace the fallen. New spears swished out of the green, new arrows whirred, 12 new poisoned darts snicked into the leaves, new yells of ferocity blended with the occasional whang of a musket. The trees between which the fighting trio had taken cover were furred with missiles. The fern foliage around them was drooping in torn tatters. The broad hats had been struck from their heads, revealing three shades of hair—black, blond, and vivid red.

“Cripes!” gritted the red-headed one, rap¬ idly reloading his piece. “Got to dig up more shells, Looey! I’m ’most shot out. How ye fixed?”

“Same way,” clipped the blond, firing as he spoke. “No time to open a can.” Crack! “Use your side-arm!” Crack!

“Yeah— Git back there, ye dirty divil!” A shot terminated his growl. A fierce face top¬ pled back and was gone.

“Ouch! Gun’s red hot!” complained the red man, meanwhile shifting his muzzle toward a disturbed bush clump. “Where’n hell’s all these guys come from?” He shot again. The bush shook violently, then stood still, a motionless bare foot protruding from its base.

“That’s just where they come from, Tim,” dryly answered the tall black-bearded fighter,, reloading in his turn. “Merry! Nail this fel¬ low, quick!”

He ducked as he spoke. A spear hurtled through the space where his face had been.

The blond, obeying his order, snapped a bullet into a momentarily revealed coppery chest. Another savage collapsed.

As the blackbeard threw his refilled gun to his shoulder a shrill yell from the outer bush rose high over the other battle howls. Another joined it, and another. Then out broke a vol¬ ume of ferocious shouts almost drowning the previous uproar.

The tight-set jaws of the beleaguered three clamped harder. Through his teeth red Tim grated: “Here’s where we git it! They got reinforcements. We ain’t got a chance.”

“Carry on!” snapped the blackbeard.

“Aw, sure.” Tim’s gun spoke twice. “Till we’re clean snowed under. That won’t be long — Huh! My gosh! Cap, listen!”

Through the hullabaloo beyond them smashed new gunshots. Rapidly they increased in speed and volume.

“Repeaters!” shouted the blond. “Repeat¬ ing rifles—forty-fours—a young army of them!” As he spoke the rain of missiles pour¬ ing at them dwindled and died. The assailants, too, were listening to the advancing roar of gun-fire. For a moment the three white men poised like statues, their eyes widening in aston¬ ished half hope. Repeating rifles, fast coming nearer—could they possibly be guns of rescue?

“Nope!” Tim answered the unspoken ques¬ tion. “This ain’t our lucky day, and we ain’t got no friends, anyways. Whoever’s cornin’ will jump us jest the same as these guys— Look out! They’re goin’ to mop up!”

As if aroused by his gruff voice, the savages charged.

Like leaping demons they came, reckless of the bullets which instantly tore into them. Over falling bodies bounded fiend-faced men with spear and club, determined to overwhelm and annihilate the dauntless but pitifully small knot of whites. Some of these also fell; others closed in.

Up rose the three, dropping rifles, but draw¬ ing flat pistols. Still back to back, they hurled a terrific fire into the naked chests swarming at them—twenty-one crashing reports merging into one ripping roar. The ground around them became a shambles.

Jamming together as they converged on their prey, the Indians fell before those devastating pistols as if collectively struck down by a thun¬ derbolt. Around the two arrow-studded trees rose a thigh-deep ring of dead. Upon it slipped and sprawled unwounded aborigines unable to hold a footing. Beyond it others halted, ap¬ palled and hesitating. In that second of respite the trio of die-hards whipped fresh clips from their belts and reloaded. And beyond them the ragged bang of the .44 repeaters steadily came nearer.

Out crashed the pistol chorus again. The naked brutes rising on the heaped bodies flopped down and stayed down. Those just be¬ yond, flinching, falling, turned to flee. Shot in the back, half a score of them failed to reach cover. The remainder hurled themselves into the thicket and were gone.

“Wow! Hot dog!” Tim yelled, hoarsely, his blue eyes darting all about. “They’ve took it on the run. Now who’s these other guys?”

The approaching force was not yet in sight, but it was coming faster and evidently sweeping all before it. The blackbeard threw up his head and hurled a booming question into the redspattered green.

“Hola! Quien es? Who is it?”

Back came the answer in a piercing yell which carried like a bugle call.

“Jose Martinez, rey de Los Blancos—king of the White Ones! Quien es usted?”

The three stood as if struck dumb. Slowly their heads turned and they stared into one another’s eyes. The firing had diminished to occasional scattered shots. From near at hand came sudden splashes, earthy thumps, rushing sounds among leaves, grunts and snarls of grappling antagonists. But within eyeshot of the two trees no man moved.

“C-r-r-ripes!” marveled Tim. “Hozy Marteeny, our ol’ buddy. Whaddye know!”

“Quien es?” came the sharp reiteration.

The tallest, his bleak face suddenly aglow, shouted back:

“McKay—Knowlton—Ryan! Over here!”

“Quien? Valgame Dios! My old com¬ rades!” sounded an exultant yell. Running feet padded. Then into sight of the gunfighters loped the Spaniard whose scout had speared the head-hunter.

To the eyes of strangers that figure erupting from the jungle would have been as grisly as that of a buccaneer attacking a town of the Spanish Main. Hair and mustachios abristle, face aflame with battle lust, shirt and hairy chest splashed with sinister stains, heavy gun gripped in one fist and red-smeared machete in the other, he made a dire picture; and the appearance of the half-dozen followers who broke- cover at his heels was hardly such as to inspire confi¬ dence in him or his intentions. Indians all, armed with spear and rifle, smeared with the blood of foemen or dripping from unheeded wounds of their own, hard jawed and slit eyed, they came on like merciless messengers of mas¬ sacre. But at sight of these grim fighters the waiting trio broke into a roar of welcome.

“Hah! Es verdad! It is true!” yelled Jose, his teeth flashing. “My companeros of the days gone by! Bienvenido, camaradas—wel¬ come back! Sangre de Cristo! What a killing you have made here!”

He halted outside the ring of dead, viewing in one astounded sweep of the eyes the execu¬ tion done by the pistols. The Indians at his heels also stopped, staring first at the slain, then at the three between the trees, then around as if seeking more white men. Finding none, they muttered to one another and gazed wide-eyed at the gunmen who had wrought such havoc.

“Yeah! And now ye come hornin’ in and bustin’ up the game!” snorted Tim, his wide grin contradicting his growling tone. “Whyn’t ye lay off a li’l’ longer, ye ol’ crape-hanger, and leave us clean up right?”

He clambered across the human barrier as he spoke, right hand outstretched. Dropping his gun, Jose darted his own right forward. Palm slapped palm and fists closed in bone-crunching grips of amity.

“Pardon, Senor Tim,” laughed the rescuer. “But I did not know who you were, and my men must have exercise. Now that I have spoiled your game you can join in mine, if you like— I am on my way to play with some Jiveros just beyond here. Ah, Capitan McKay!”

Wrenching his hand loose, he proffered it to the tall man, w r ho now had come out and was standing with soldierly erectness. A quick, hearty handshake, a tight-lipped smile, and Cap¬ tain McKay turned away unspeaking, his gray eyes searching the jungle and his pistol ready. The blond, slender Knowlton was the next and last to seize the powder-smutted hand of the king of the White Ones.

“Jose, you’re the toughest-looking angel I ever clapped an eye on,” he declared, “but you’re an angel just the same. We were about shot out.”

“You are the first who ever called me so sweet a name, Teniente,” grinned the other. “But you mean you have no more cartridges? That is bad.”

“No—we have some—didn’t have time to open up the reserve. Got some here in a canothers in a cache up the Pastasa-”

“You came down the Pastasa? Nombre de Dios! That is a journey for men! But where are your packers? Killed?”

“Here’s hopin’ they are!” Tim broke in, vengefully. “They turned yeller—quit us cold, away upstream.”

“Ah,” nodded Jose. “The old story. But come, I must move. Open your can quickly. Leave all else here. My men will return later.”

The talk had been swift, each man keeping an ear open toward the fight, which seemed to be receding. Now Tim lunged over the bar¬ rier, shoved a couple of dead Jiveros aside, and lifted from the ground a heavy pack. Rapidly unstrapping it, he drew out a gallon kerosene tin, soldered air-tight, which he attacked with a machete, rising soon with hands full of flat pasteboard cartridge-boxes. Meanwhile Jose gave curt commands in some Indian tongue to the waiting half dozen aborigines, who glanced at Tim’s pack and at two others half buried between the trees, then nodded.

“Here y’ are, Cap and Looey.” Tim cast his handful of boxes at the pair beyond, stooped, lifted the can and its remaining contents, and pitched it also at their feet. Gathering up the rifles, he floundered over to them. With fast¬ working fingers all reloaded their guns and replenished their depleted ammunition belts. The extra cartridges then remaining went into pockets.

“All set. Where do we go from here?” de¬ manded the florid Irishman.

“Follow,” curtly answered Jose, gun again in hand. At once he was off, his Indians close at his heels as before. The Americans loped in the rear, twitching their heavy belts to rest more comfortably across their hips.

Through the bewildering maze of buttressed trees, dangling vines, and spreading fronds the short column advanced at its best speed; now swerving around a tree butt, now hurdling a down log, now stumbling over a contorted body nearly hidden in the undergrowth. The area of bullet-shredded leaves was left behind, but new corpses were met at frequent intervals—usually those of black-toothed Jiveros, but now and then that of a lighter-colored man of the jungle. The fight had swept on in a series of individual combats among the forest ambushes, and now it was centering on some place close ahead. Gun¬ fire sounded, but only in infrequent shots punc¬ tuating a snarling rumble of voices—an inarticu¬ late dissonance heavy with hatred. The enemy, scattered at first by the unexpected onslaught of Jose and his men, evidently had now drawn together and made a stand.

And so it proved. Suddenly the little column emerged into a clearing, in the middle of which stood a big, pole-walled, palm-thatched house. Around this house raged a lethal melee. Here and there among the charred stumps studding the open space light men and brown men grap¬ pled in small knots, stabbing, throttling, tum¬ bling close locked on the ground; but the main fight was along the walls of the tribal domicile. Clubs rose and battered down; red-dripping spears flew; machetes gleamed as their owners thrust, dodged, slashed; rifles and muskets bludgeoned out brains or belched a few bullets at close range. The place was a whirlpool of battling naked men.

“Bueno!” exulted Jose, after a keen look. “Aillu has not forgotten his plan, in spite of our fight back in the bush. He is a good capitan. Friend Tim, have you tobacco? I would smoke.”

The Americans, seeking the best point to throw themselves into the fray, turned on him in astonishment. After his dash to reach the fight, he now stood like a mere spectator.

“What’s stoppin’ ye? Cold feet?” demanded the outspoken Tim.

Jose guffawed.

“Not so. My feet are most warm. But we are not needed there. My men can handle the little matter—and, as I said, I would smoke.”

He motioned to the six Indians who had attended him unceasingly, and who now stood tense as chained dogs. The movement was only a wave of the hand toward the fight, but the warriors grinned as if given priceless rewards. With a simultaneous leap they sprinted toward their foes, howling like wolves as they sped. A moment later they were merged in the mass.

The three partners hesitated, watched the combat a moment longer, then relaxed. Jose had spoken truth. His followers had the upper hand. They had herded the Jiveros back against their own walls and were steadily cut¬ ting them down.

“Marvel of marvels! Jose Martinez neg¬ lecting a chance to fight!” said Knowlton, fish¬ ing a tobacco pouch from a pocket and proffering it. “Never thought I’d live to see that. How come?”

“I have learned wisdom in my old age,” chuckled the other. “I am not now Jose Marti¬ nez, Peruvian outlaw and lone bush tramp, with only myself to think of when I fight. I am el rey—King Jose, ruler of the White Ones of No Man’s Land—and I must stand off and watch while my captains battle.”

“Faith, ye look it, I don’t think!” rumbled Tim. “Blood from hair to belt, ye are, and yer toad-stabber there is covered with it. Stand off and watch—huh! But what’s this king stuff? Straight goods?”

“I am the king,” was the simple answer. Then, with a grin: “And yet I have not a match, and without a match I do not smoke.”

McKay, without taking his eyes from the fighting, passed over a little box of matches. Jose, igniting the tobacco which he had rolled in a thin slip of bark, took a lungful of smoke and exhaled rapturously. For all his noncha¬ lance, however, he was watching the melee like a cat.

For a few minutes nobody spoke. The strug¬ gling Indians heaved and struck, pitched out¬ ward or collapsed; the brown ones became fewer; the growling mob-voice gradually dimin¬ ished. At length the light warriors began walk¬ ing about in little knots, some limping, all looking for survivors to dispatch. Around the pole walls settled a quiet broken only by short questions and answers among the victors.

“An easy victory,” coolly said King Jose. “I came with men enough to wipe out this whole nest of savages, but you had killed many before we arrived. That Capitan Aillu of mine has a trick of surrounding which seldom fails—to at¬ tack with part of his men in front, more on the sides to close in behind-”

“An encircling movement,” nodded McKay. “Good stuff if you have enough men. And those men of yours are bear-cats.”