Black White

Front matter

A complete Novelette by Arthur O. Friel

Author of “Tiger River,” “Cat o’ Mountain,” etc.

Chapter 1

IF YOU will pardon a stranger for intruding upon your talk, señores, I can settle that argument of yours. I mean that I can tell you the whole truth about the matter. Perhaps you will not believe when you have heard that truth, but truth it is.

Gracia’—thank you—I will sit. Tobalito, bring a bottle of ron anciado of Maracaibo from the cantina at the corner, and a paper of cigarrillos—the Emperadores. No, gentlemen; allow me to do the buying. You Americans are not long in Venezuela, and you might be overcharged, while I—the cantineros of this Ciudad Bolívar know better than to try to cheat Loco León. The last one who tried it was three weeks in recovering.

Ha! You smile. Have you already heard of Loco León—Mad Lion? No? My name is Lucio León. But because I roam in wild places where these townsmen dare not go and see things which they do not believe, they have changed Lucio to Loco. I do not care. The laughter of fools is harmless.

Ah, si, I am a Spaniard. You at first thought me an American like yourselves, perhaps, because I am blond? It is a compliment. True, it is odd to find a yellow-haired and blue-eyed Spaniard on this Rio Orinoco, where almost every man is very dark of skin, hair, and eye. I am the only blond Venezolano on all the long Orinoco. Yet that is not so strange as the thing I now shall tell you.

And before I tell it, señores, let me say this: that tomorrow you may go to any one here in Bolívar—to the Banco de Venezuela, to the Royal Bank of Canada, to any house of business—and ask the presidents of them whether Lucio León, called León Loco or Loco León, who once each year brings down his balata rubber from the Alto Orinoco, is a liar. And they will answer that never, in the largest or smallest matter, has León been known to speak false., Then they may smile and add:

“Except when he speaks of things in the unknown mountains of Guayana and the jungles of Rio Negro.”

You may judge for yourselves, señores, whether a man who never has lied to save himself or his money would tell false tales about matters that profit him nothing.

Now you were speaking of that tale which most men here have heard, but which is new to you strangers—that of El Blanco Negro, or Black White; the man of mystery who roams like a lost soul through the Guayana mountains south of here, and who never is seen by any man except the Indians who live there. You said, Mr. Davis, that it was “all bunk,” which, I think, means you do not believe a word of it. And you, Mr. Seabury, said that2

Pardon? Oh, yes, I know your names: I know all about you. You came in on the last Delta, you are going up the Rio Caroní—a bad river, too, señores—to hunt gold and diamonds, but your guns are held in customs and you must wait here until Presidente Gomez telegraphs from Caracas to release them. How do I know? Ha! Everybody knows. When a North American comes in here every one learns everything about him. All the world watches and listens and tells.

But you were saying, Mr. Seabury, that the story of Black White was not only possible but probable; that you have heard that a man named White did come into Venezuela years ago, and went up the Orinoco, and disappeared; and that perhaps he liked the wild life so well, or found some Indian girl so attractive, that he “went native,” as you call it. Now it happens that you have hit something near the truth, but yet not the truth. And I, who saw the beginning and the ending, will tell you all.

It was—let me see, what is the year? One forgets. Ah yes, nineteen twenty-two. It was, then, six years ago when I first saw White. I had brought down my balata from the Rio Padamo, and settled my last year’s trade account at Blum’s store here on the Calle Orinoco, and now, after traveling hundreds of leagues in boats, I wished to harden my legs again. So, while I was eating my cena here at this hotel, I decided that later I would walk up and down these steep Bolívar streets for the good of my muscles, as well as to see what I might see. I was just finishing my coffee and beginning to smoke another cigarrillo, when in came the man White.

I was sitting at that little table just there, señores, where I sat tonight and overheard your talk about him. At this table, where we now are, ate an Englishman whom I knew but did not speak to—a heavy man who drank too much and whose eyes were too close together; he was manager of an English trading-store which now is gone from Bolívar, and his name was Lord. I was thinking of matters up the river and looking out into this little patio beyond the rail, when the voice of the man Lord jarred on me like the sudden roar of an areguato—the big red howling monkey.

“Well, it’s about time!” he said. “What’s the delay about? Got a new one to kiss in the corner?”

Then I saw White. He was swinging along past the tables, dressed in white from soft collar to rubber-soled shoes, carrying his white helmet in one hand, and laughing at Lord’s bawl. My first thought was that he was the most handsome man I had ever seen. My second was that he was an Englishman like Lord—probably because he was coming to Lord’s table and because of the helmet. Only new-come Englishmen or Americans wear helmets here. We Venezolanos use our sombreros of straw or felt.

But when White slid into his chair and mocked the Englishman I decided he was not English. He made too much fun of the English way of speaking.

“Wot say, old nut?” he drawled. “Why all the bally rumpus? Cahn’t a chappy come a bit late to tea2”

Lord broke in with a snort.

“Bah! You 2 Americans, with your stage-English twaddle!” he said.

White laughed loud and slapped the table. And he said:

“Got your goat again so soon? You ought to leave it in the store, you old rummy. And don’t roar out such embarrassing questions at a virtuous young man. It isn’t sportin’, y’know. My word!”

This time it was Lord that laughed. He leaned back and gurgled so that I thought he was choking. Then he got out:

“Virtuous! Haw-haw-haw! You virtuous? Hee-hee-hee—I’ll tell Felicia that one tonight—haw-haw! But jokin’ aside, White, you’re headin’ into trouble if you’re not careful. Mercedes and Rosita are jealous, and a jealous woman down here is likely to be the 2, y’know. Two of ’em are two 2. And2”

“Oh, they can both go jump in the river, for all I care,” White cut him off. “Now shut up and let me eat in peace.”

Lord did shut up, except to chuckle now and then, and went on with his own eating. White sat just where you are now, Mr. Davis, facing toward me; and while he was waiting for his soup I studied him, while pretending not to notice him at all.

He was a striking man; tall, and strongly shaped; with curly dark hair, big blue eyes with long lashes, and splendid white teeth which gleamed now and then as if he were thinking of a joke. The dark hair and blue eyes seemed odd together, but yet they made him all the better looking. His jaw was well set and his lips full and good-humored, making him look much more manly than the eyes. But the most handsome thing about him, I think, was his skin.

It was as clear and clean a skin as that of a baby—a girl baby. Never have I seen anything like it on living man, or woman either—it was such a soft, glowing skin as one sees only in the colored pictures sometimes given away on calendars by Blum’s store. It seemed too fine to be real. Somehow I felt that he must take very good care of it—almost too much care for a man to devote to himself. And as I glanced over his clothes this feeling grew.

His suit was almost too free from wrinkles, too perfect in fit. His bow tie seemed a little too exact, his shoes a trifle too snugly tied. I noticed, too, that he sat with legs forward and feet a little apart, so that he would neither cause his trousers to grow baggy nor soil his silk socks with shoe-sole or heel. And then, as I glanced at the helmet he had laid on an empty chair, I saw that it was very wide; it looked as if bought to give his skin all possible protection from sunburn.

My first admiration for him began to grow cool.

“He is a traveler for some large company in the United States,” I thought. “Probably he has had to come around from Caracas on some business and will leave by the next steamer. A 2 among the women, without doubt. Soon he will return to his country and tell his friends about his adventures in the ‘wilds of the Orinoco,’ all of which happened in the electric-lighted, police-guarded city of Bolívar. Caramba! What would he do if he ever really found himself in the wilds?”

A moment later I decided that one of my guesses was good but others were bad. The señora, who runs the hotel, brought him several letters.

“Some mail for you, Mr. White,” she said. “The Delta came in today, you know.”

“Good!” he cried, glancing at the envelopes. “Thank you, señora. I didn’t expect anything just yet, but I’ll bet this is what I’ve been waiting for. Now let’s see.”

There were three long white envelopes, and two small square ones which were light gray. He scowled in a puzzled way at the last two, then threw them on the table and ripped open one of the big white ones. I saw that the gray envelopes were covered with lines and writing, where old addresses had been changed to later ones.

Lord fixed his eyes on those letters and grinned, but said nothing. White read rapidly through all the others, which seemed to be letters of business.

“Aha! Now we’re off!” he said, carefully folding them and slipping them into a pocket. “That’s the dope I needed. Now I can sail for the Caura, where the bean does the tango and the balata balls its tar.”

I nearly dropped my cigarrillo. This girl-skinned man going to the Caura? I knew the Caura, where both the tonca-bean and the balata grow, and I knew it was bad. It flows into the Orinoco, señores, from those same wild Guayana hills of which I have spoken—the land called by the Indians “Parima,” which' means “high falling waters,” or cataracts. Its mouth is not far from here—about forty leagues—and its lower part, running through the open sabana country, is not very difficult; but the balata and the serrapia—tonca bean—grow only in the upper part, and there the river becomes wicked with raudales—or, as you call them, rapids. And the mosquitoes—I looked at White’s wonderful skin and concluded that he must be joking, or else that he knew not what he did.

Lord said something which I do not remember, then pointed at the unopened mail.

“Those can wait,” White said carelessly, and went to eating.

But soon, as if tired of seeing the gray envelopes there, he ripped them with a fork and opened up the folded sheets inside. After reading a few words he scowled again and flipped over the pages to look at the name signed.

“Oh!” he said, as if remembering. And then: “Ho, ho!” as if something was funny.

Turning back to the beginning, he read straight through the letter. Then he went through the second one. Long before he had finished he was scowling again as if annoyed.

“Oh, rats!” he snapped when he was through. “No chance!”

“She loves him no more,” said Lord in a deep voice, trying to look solemn.

“No more? Huh! Too much! Here, look at ’em.”

White tossed the letters over. Lord hesitated, then said, “Oh, all right,” and began reading. Soon his mouth turned down.

“Hm. Yes. The old stuff,” he said soon. “Those who dance must pay the fiddler.”

White looked a little sober, but then he laughed in an impatient way.

“How can I help it now?” he complained. “Marrying won’t do any good. If a fellow had to marry all the girls that—well, you know. Anyway, I’m thousands of miles away from there. I should worry!”

“Of course,” Lord nodded. “Just as well for you, p’r’aps, that you’re here now, y’know. You can lie doggo while it blows over. How is the—ah—law in your country about that sort o’ thing?”

“Law? Humph! Nothing to worry about. She’d never take it to law. She’s the proud sort—go away and hide somewhere instead of raising a row. I’m sort of sorry, but—it’s all in a lifetime. Let’s forget it.”

And he resumed eating as if his appetite was all the better.

Chapter 2

II

I DECIDED that I did not like White. I had long known that I did not like Lord. So I arose and went to my room, got my hat and walked out on the streets to see what amusement I could find.

I soon found some, for it was well known about town that I had brought down a good cargo of balata and had plenty of money; so it was not long before I was met by men who were very friendly and invited me to gamble. I did gamble, and spent a pleasant and profitable evening. When at last I tired of the game it was very late and the town very quiet. I said buen’ noche’ to my friends, who answered rather sourly—you see, I had kept all my own money and won from them six morrocotas, which in your money is one hundred twenty dollars of gold.

Then I went out into the bright moonlight and started for the hotel, walking in the middle of the street, as is wise when one has won in a gambling game and shadows are thick beside walls and under trees.

But the night was so cool and clear that I felt like walking on and on. And walk I did, leaving the Paseo and climbing up the Calle Libertad, and passing around by the cuartel to look at the soldiers sitting on guard all in a row, and so on down and around the hill. Then my legs said: “Enough!” So I swung back to Calle Libertad, still walking in the middle of the street.

The moon now was well over to the west, and half the street was very bright and half quite dark, except at the corners where the electric lights burned. The cobblestones began to hurt my feet. So, having seen no sign that I was being followed or waited for, I stepped to the smooth sidewalk on the shady side and swung on down it, walking on the curb, watching doorways, and making no sound with my well-worn alpargatas.

All at once I saw, in a doorway a little ahead, something move. I stopped short and loosened my poniard. The figure crouching there did not move again, but I saw its projecting head, watching. As I looked fixedly at it I saw also that it was watching, not me, but the house across the street. It came to me that the watcher did not know I was there.

Beside me was an empty doorway. In two steps I was within it. I know my way about this town, and I was quite sure that the house being watched was that of General—I will not speak the name here; but it is that of a man very high in power, who has—or had—the most beautiful daughter in Bolívar. Whether he himself was being awaited at this late hour by some assassin, or whether something else was afoot, I did not know. Neither did I care. But I was curious. So I waited.

I stood there hidden for perhaps half an hour. Nobody passed. Nothing happened. Then, slowly and silently, the door of the watched house moved open. A head came out, looked quickly up and down the street, the moonlight striking into its eyes. The door swung wider, and out stepped a tall man whom I instantly recognized. He was White.

He was not dressed in white now, but in a dark suit not so easily seen at night; and he wore no hat. Beyond him in the darkness, though, was something white; something like a robe or a frock. He turned, and for a minute he held this white figure very close. Then the door swung shut, and he started swiftly away down the walk.

Something flashed over the cobbles—a thing that flew like an arrow and glittered like a knife. It struck with a hard thud. White staggered, threw out his arms, and collapsed.

I came out. The lurking figure in the doorway down the hill also had sprung forth, and was starting toward the motionless man.

“Alto ahí!” I commanded, speaking low.

The other halted as if paralyzed. Even when I walked up to him he made no move to fight or run, but stood with face drawn and big brown eyes wide and glassy.

I recognized him—a young fellow of good family, hardly more than a boy, called Paquito; a lively young rogue, usually full of deviltry, but not at all bad. I was much astonished.

“Paquito? It is you?” I asked. “You have become a thrower of the knife? What means this thing?”

He swallowed, and his eyes became less large.

“Ah, Loco León!” he muttered. “I did not know you. It is—it is my sister.”

“Oh!” I said. “I did not know you had a sister. Her name?”

“Mercedes. This Norte Americano has2”

“Say no more,” I broke in. “But your sister does not live here, in the house of the general. Why have you come here?”

“I followed,” he whispered, staring at the still figure on the sidewalk and beginning to tremble. “I could not—I could not quite do it when he went in—my hand shook. So I have waited.”

I looked at him, and at the man he had struck down, and at the doorway through which White had just come—now shut and blank. I thought of what Lord had said, and of the words of White—that a girl named Mercedes could jump into the river for all he cared. And I thought also of the proud general and his beautiful daughter. And then White moved.

One of his arms began to twitch on the stones. He was not dead. I jumped to him, looked closely at him, and then pulled a keen-pointed knife from the left shoulder of his coat.

“Paquito,” I said, rising, “you are a poor knife-thrower, and you may be glad of it. Your knife flew high and turned, so that the haft hit him over the ear. Then it fell, and the point caught in his coat without cutting him. You are very lucky, for it is not well to kill a foreigner on the streets of this town. Now follow this knife, and never throw it again at a man—until you can throw like this.”

With that I swung my arm, and the poniard went chuck! into the middle of a telephone pole several varas away. Then I gave Paquito a shove. He fled to the pole, jerked the blade from it, and disappeared around the next corner.

I turned back to White just in time to find him rising with eyes full of rage. He swung a fierce blow at me. I dodged, and for a minute I was kept dodging, for he came after me with both fists flying. Then I became a little angry; I am not accustomed to being attacked without fighting back.

“Stop it, you fool!” I snapped. “Do you wish to wake the general with your noisy feet?”

It was the best thing I could have said. He stopped short, his eyes darting to the closed door.

“Now listen, hombre,” I went on. “I am not the man who knocked you down. I know who did, but I shall not tell you here. I go to the hotel, and I advise you to go there too, at once. From what I have seen, you should not linger here.”

He stood glaring at me, and his eyes were not girlish now; there was something infernal in them. But he did not strike at me again.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low but hard. “Somebody’s spy?”

“No.”

I began walking away toward the hotel. He followed promptly, and closely. As soon as we turned the corner he spoke again. “Listen, you!” he ordered. “You’ve got some explaining to do, and you’d better do it quick. Right here and now!”

“Very well,” I said. “Perhaps it is better. The hotel has ears.”

And I told him just what I had seen and how I had happened to see it. But I mentioned no names—neither that of Paquito nor of Mercedes, nor that of the daughter of the general. The knife was thrown, I said, by a relative of a young woman who felt herself wronged.

“As for me,” I ended, “I am Lucio León of the Alto Orinoco, and I have no interest in you. Ask anyone here tomorrow whether Lucio León, called Loco, is a spy. Buen’ noche’.”

“Bah! Every one of you 2 Venezuelans is a spy!” he growled. “Now who’s this woman you say is gunning for me?”

“If I were the spy you think, I might answer that question for a price,” I told him. “But you get no name from me. And if you do not like us 2 Venezuelans, the sooner you leave our country the better for you. Again I bid you good night.”

He moved as if to stop me, but I looked him straight in the eye and he put no hand on me.

“Say, you talk straight,” he admitted grudgingly. “And you don’t look like a sneak, either. Well, I’m much obliged.”

I walked away and left him there.

A little later, as I was undressing in my room, I heard him go quietly past my door. When I ate breakfast the next morning he was still sleeping, and I saw him only once in the following days—being late at meals seemed to be his habit, and I was in the hotel only at meal-times or late at night. When I did see him he looked just as on that first night, except for a lump over the left ear; and he gave no sign of ever having seen me before.

I heard, though, as one hears many things here in town, that he really was going to the Caura, in order to investigate and report on the extent of the serrapia and balata forests there; that he was doing this for some big company which might lease a concession from the government if the prospects were rich enough, and that he himself was not an employe of that company, but an official of it, and was thought to be wealthy. He had chartered a launch and picked a good crew, and so should have a safe journey, people said.

I knew well enough that if he was to make a thorough survey of the Caura country he could not do it in any launch—he would have to forsake the gas-boat and rely on canoes and paddlers and guides of the Indians. But I said nothing. It was not my business, and I was not his friend. I was only a “2 Venezuelan.”

Then he was gone. I heard nothing of any trouble about women, or about any other thing. With his launch and his crew and his gun and maps and mosquito-nets and broad hat and beautiful skin, he was gone up the Orinoco.

My respect for him, which had been very small, increased a good deal when I learned that he had actually started for those wild lands. Whether I liked him or not, I had to admit that he was not afraid; and in a fearless man many other things can be overlooked. Yet I wondered whether he knew just how hard a task he had set for himself.

No word came back, except that brought by the master of a piragua bringing down rubber. He reported seeing a lancha rushing up the river, and was curious to know what party it carried. The next down-bound trader had no news of any gas-boat, so we knew it had turned into the Caura.

And that, señores, was the last time White or his crew, or even the launch that carried them, ever was seen on the Orinoco.

Chapter III

NOW, unless you gentlemen know how we make the balata rubber—and hardly any one does, except those who handle it—perhaps I should explain a little, so that you may understand more clearly what is to come. Everything about it is different from the work of collecting the more common rubber, which here is called caucho and in Brazil is named seringa. It comes from a different tree, grows in a different kind of country, is collected at a different time of year, is treated in a different way, and is used for a different purpose. Also, it sells for a different price, and that is why we collect it.

As you probably know, our Alto Orinoco is near Brazil, and the country there is much like Brazil—not open sabana, as here, but jungle; and there grows the caucho, along the river itself and in the bush round about. We used to work the caucho, but for several reasons we do so no more. First, the price fell. Second, the Orinoco is a man-killing river in its upper part, full of huge boulders and dangerous raudales which have smashed many a boat and swallowed many a man; so it is not worth while to bring out rubber for small money. Third, very few people now are left alive there, because of the killings by the murderer Tomás Funes and his army of cutthroats, from 1913 to 1921.

You can travel for many a long league in the Rio Negro country—that is what we call the Orinoco in the Territorio de Amazonas, because the only town in that territory, San Fernando de Atabapo, is on an ink-black river—you can paddle for many a day, I say, and see on the banks only empty palm huts and overgrown clearings. Ask what they are, and you will be told, “Old caucho camps.” Ask where the caucheros are now, and the answer is, “Killed by Funes.” The few of us who are left alive in that country do not bother with the caucho. We go after the balata.

The caucho grows in flooded lowlands, and its milk is collected in the dry season. The balata grows in the mountains, and can be worked only in the time of heavy rains. The gum of the caucho is rolled on a stick and smoked over a fire. That of the balata is boiled down in huge pans. The caucho rubber is used for many things with which you are familiar. The balata is tougher, and from it is made belting for machines, insulation for wires, and such things, for which the caucho is not so good. No, señor, the balata is not sent largely to your United States—almost all of it is bought in England.

Now, because the balata grows in the mountains only, and the only balata-growing mountains we have are those of the Parima region, we who would work it must leave our dangerous Orinoco and journey up the still more dangerous rivers flowing out of these mountains; more dangerous, because they are even more rocky and have fierce currents. There are very few of us, as I have said, who do this work in the Alto Orinoco country; and of those few all but I, Loco, the Madman, live in San Fernando de Atabapo and send out Indian scouts to hunt for new districts each year. I do my own scouting, because2

Pardon? Why do we not tap the same trees each year? Because, señor, we do not “tap” the trees at all—we cut them down. So when we have worked a district once we have killed it. Wasteful, you say? Suicidal? Perhaps. But, señor, we live only while we may and we take all we can get while we live. What do we care for the years to come? We shall be dead then. And in this business it is every man for himself.

As I said, I do my own scouting, because Indians will not always tell you about all they find. What I myself have seen, that I know. I can not see clearly through another man’s eyes. Furthermore, I will not live in San Fernando—I do not like it. Every foot of its ground is soaked with human blood. Its very air is poisonous. So when other balata men are spending the dry season there drinking up their money, I am out in the wilds cruising about for new finds. You gold-seekers would call it “prospecting,” and so it is—only I prospect for trees instead of gold.