The Thirty Gang

Front matter

THE THIRTY GANG

A Complete Novelette

by Arthur O. Friel

Chapter 1

I

NOW, as I have told you, señores, before this, I am a rover of the balata rubber country where the Maquiritares live. In the dry time, when no balata can be gathered, I ramble in those wild mountains both for business and for pleasure: I scout for new rubber trees, I visit the tribe-houses of my Maquiritare friends, and I enjoy the freedom and the sudden adventures of the untamed highlands. In the rainy season my Maquiritares work the balata for me at the places I have chosen, and when the crop is in I bring it down the Orinoco to sell to Blum's commission house here in Ciudad Bolívar. Then I return to the uplands.

I am the only blanco in all Venezuela who can follow this life among the Maquiritares, for I am the only one whom they trust. Throughout their land the name of Loco León is known as that of an amigo and a buen hombre, who always keeps his word and treats them justly.

There are other men, of course, who also work the balata in the up-Orinoco country—but none who work it in the home-land of the Maquiritares. They would do so if they could, but they know the brown men would not let them. Perhaps when this tale of mine is done you will understand why the Indians keep those brutes out of their hills.

It was three years ago when this thing came about. It was also three years from the time when White had been turned into Black White by Juana, daughter of the chief of the Maquiritares of Uauana, at the top of the perilous river Ventuari.

Since that day I never had seen the face of that blackened man, nor did I wish to; for he has sworn that no white man shall look on his face and live to tell of it, and he means what he says. But I had heard his voice at times, and knew he still lived; for sometimes at night he would arrive unexpectedly and, standing back in the darkness where the light of my little camp-fire would not reveal him, he would order me to talk to him in English; and I would talk until, as suddenly as he had come, he went. I knew, too, that the girl Juana always was with him, for I heard her voice also.

But except for these things I knew nothing of him, because the Maquiritares would not talk about him, even to me.

Now, in that year of which I speak, I had finished my season's work, brought my balata down the Orinoco to Bolívar, taken my annual holiday, and gone back up the big river. Thus I had come to San Fernando de Atabapo, the only town in the big Territorio de Amazonas, and the place from which the murder-maniac Tomas Funes and his cut-throat army ruled the whole up-Orinoco country. It was also the place where my rivals in the balata trade lived in the dry season.

They had no love for me, those San Fernando men, nor I for them. They were jealous of me because, thanks to my straight dealings with the Maquiritares, I always got far bigger cargoes of balata than they could gather by brutal methods. My feelings toward them and their town was that of any normal man toward a den of snakes.

But, for several reasons, it was necessary for me to stop at San Fernando. I had to change boats, leaving the piragua in which my crew had poled up from the rapids of Maipures and transferring my trade-goods to the long curial which I use on the Ventuari. I had to visit Funes and tell him what I had seen and heard down the river; every one traveling up had to do this or risk being executed for disrespect to the tyrant. And I had to walk about, meet my enemies and look them in the eye, and let them see that I was not afraid of them. So I stopped at the town and did all these things.

Funes was in a sour mood that day, but I told him several funny stories about happenings here in Bolívar, and before I left him he was roaring like an areguato monkey. Then I strolled about the town, taking a drink here and there, listening to what I might hear, and talking to men who ached to kill me.

There was not the least doubt in my mind as to what those enemies of mine wanted to do. But I did not swagger about with rifle ready as if seeking trouble. Indeed, I had deliberately left my rifle in Funes' house, asking one of his bodyguard to take care of it for me; and my poniard and revolver were at my waist under my loose white coat—though the coat was unbuttoned. Nor did those men who longed to see my blood spattering on the ground speak what was in their black hearts. Things were not done so roughly in Funes' town—unless Funes himself ordered it.

"Hola, Loco León!" was the hearty greeting I got from the snake-tongued men. "Como 'stá uste', amigo? How are things below? Come and have a drink!"

And their hands would carelessly slip a little nearer to their belts.

"Gracia, Lucio," I would say. "I will have that drink and) buy you two in return. All is well down the river. How is it with you?"

And my arm would accidentally brush my coat back a trifle more from my hips.

And while we smiled and spoke so with our lips, their eyes would say—

"Your life hangs by a thread, and at my own time I shall cut it."

And mine would answer—

"It will take a better man than you to do it."

So we would drink and joke—with our mouths; and all would look as peaceful as windless water.

Yet these men who greeted me so cordially had boasted about what they would do to me when next I should come to town. Those brags had come to my ears, and now I was giving them their chance to "start something," as you North Americans say. And I was not the only one who waited to see how well the boasters made good their threats. While I stood and drank in the Casa del Pueblo, other men came carelessly drifting in or loitered around the doors, looking very innocent but watching and listening to what went on.

They kept on waiting, for nothing happened. I drank with every one of the men who had talked so loudly when I was far away, and they still did nothing but talk; what is more, they were careful how they talked.

Several times one or another of them passed behind my back, but I gave no attention to them; I knew that at that moment Tomas Funes felt good-humored toward me, and that every man in town was aware of it, and so every one of them knew that whoever stabbed me in the back would very soon be beheaded at Funes' order. Of course, if I should be killed in a fight, or by accident, that would be another matter.

Since nobody started a fight and there seemed to be little chance of an "accident" just then, I decided to quit drinking. I had had enough, and the boasters had not even boasted in my hearing, so there was no sense in wasting more time and money there. There was a full cup of caballo blanco (white rum) on the bar before me, and after tossing it off I would leave the place. But I never drank that liquor.

The little room was very hot, and the man at my right pushed away from the bar and went to the door. Another man stepped into his place, with his rifle swinging at his left leg. Glancing at him, I saw that he was a hard fellow, named Diego, who belonged to one of my snaky enemies, Otón Argel. And Argel himself had been standing for some time at my other side, and still stood there. So I was between Argel and his man.

Now, this Argel was supposed to be one of Tomás Funes' pets. I say "supposed to be," because no man ever could be sure of himself with Funes. No matter how slavishly he obeyed the tyrant's whims, he might suddenly find himself out of favor and lucky if he escaped with his life; for Funes trusted nobody, and many of the men killed by his order were murdered because he suspected them of plotting against him.

He did not even trust his own mistress—in which, perhaps, he was wise. Still, as I say, this Argel was believed to be in the good graces of Funes—though he had not succeeded in convincing his master that I ought to be executed, as he probably had tried to do.

He had been drinking there with me for some time, but I knew he had taken no more than I. Yet now he began to act drunk. He laughed very loud, slapped the bar with his hands, and threw his shoulders about quite clumsily. And Diego, saying nothing, stood loosely at my right side, his gun-butt on the floor and his eyes on the rum before him. His left hand hung down beside his rifle.

I was no stranger to San Fernando and its ways, and I smelt an "accident." Paying no attention to Diego, I watched the staggering Argel cornerwise and moved my right hand toward my cup of rum. At that instant Argel lurched heavily toward me.

My hand clutched the edge of the bar and I threw myself back with all my strength. In the same second Diego's gun belched flame across my abdomen. Burning powder stung my flesh. Argel gave a hoarse, horrible sound. His thick body thumped on the floor, and he writhed on the spot where my feet had just been.

Chapter 2

II

ADIOS MIO!" yelled Diego. "The gun has exploded! Loco León is hurt!"

He yelled it even as his master was falling; yelled it too quickly, showing that he had the words ready to shout as soon as his bullet tore through me. With the words he twitched his left hand to drop the black thread, now broken, by which he had pulled the trigger of his cocked gun when his master shoved me.

It was not a very new trick in San Fernando, but up to now it had always worked well. An "accidental" push against a loaded rifle—an "accidental" explosion—made an "accident" that was always loudly bemoaned by the fellow with the gun, but not by the victim. A .44 slug sent upward from under the ribs blows all moans out of a man.

But when Diego saw whom that bullet had caught, the other things he had ready to say stuck in his throat. Argel struggled over on one side before he died, and his wicked eyes glared up at Diego, who stood like a stone.

"2 roast you forever!" gasped Argel. Then he crumpled up and was quiet. Diego, still holding his thread, lifted his face in a dazed way and stared at me.

"A slight mistake, Diego," I said. "It is not Loco León who is hurt. But that is the fault of Argel, not yours. You had better find a patrón who is not so clumsy."

I was angry enough to kill him—a powder burn across the belly does not improve a man's temper—but I let him live. He was only a tool, and the real assassin—Argel—had paid in full. Later I laughed long over the joke of it, but just then I was not in a merry mood.

His hand went to his machete, but he did not draw. His rifle was on the floor, where it had dropped in the "accident," and he let it lie. I gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling, and then started for the door. But before I reached it there was work to do.

Erasmo Argel, brother of the dead man, let out a squall like a maddened cat and jumped for me.

"My brother! León has killed my brother!" he screeched. His dagger was out, and he stabbed for my throat. Other men, too, snarled. I had to fight fast if I was to leave that place alive.

I dodged the knife and shot Erasmo in the stomach. And then, with revolver in one hand and poniard in the other, I shot and stabbed my way straight out of there. I did not pick my men—I had no friends there, and I attacked everybody in my way. The watchers at the door broke and scattered to get away from me. They had nothing in particular against me, and had come only to see what might take place, and now they were well pleased with the show. So, with gun empty but knife ready, I walked away without further trouble.

There was mad swearing back in the rum-shop, but the outsiders laughed and called after me:

"Well fought, León! The Coronel will make you a sargento primero in the army!"

And I heard one say:

"Por Dios, but, this Loco León is well named! When he fights he is a mad lion in truth!"

But, Mad Lion though I might be, I was a lone lion among a big pack of treacherous dogs, and I had no wish to stay there. Those who cheered me now might shoot me down in the next ten minutes; Funes might laugh over the end of the Argel brothers, or he might have me tied to a tree and beheaded. I decided to make a complaint to Funes himself before others could complain of me, and then to get away as quickly as possible. So, reloading as I went, I swiftly crossed the plaza to Funes' headquarters.

It had grown dark now, and I was halted sharply at Funes' door and held there until a lantern was put to my face. The guard had been changed at sundown, and it happened to be under command of Amalio Lopez, who was by far the best man in Funes' whole force: a brave, sensible fellow, who, when Funes finally was captured and executed in 1921 by the army of Cedeño, died fighting to the last for his chief. He was the one man in the place worthy of any respect.

"Ah, it is Loco León," he said. "You can not see the Coronel now, Loco. He orders that nobody disturb him before morning, as he entertains two women. What was the shooting over there?"

"It was my shooting," I answered boldly. "See, my shirt is shot away by that hound of an Otón Argel. He tried the rifle accident on me. Erasmo tried stabbing me. Both are dead, and others also. Now I want to know if this was done by the order of the Coronel. If he wants my life why does he not take it in the usual way?"

"Whenever he wants it he will take it in that way," Amalio answered grimly. "He gave the Argels no instructions. They are dead? I am glad of it. But this may be serious for you, Loco. The chief had use for them."

"He has use for me also," I snapped back. "I pay him a larger balata tax than any other man in this Rio Negro country. What is more, it was only a little while ago that I amused him much, and that is worth more than money. And if those dogs would try killing me without authority, would they not do other things against authority? Might they not even try to murder the chief himself? Who knows?"

"That is so," Amalio slowly agreed. The one thought always in the mind of Funes and his men was that some one would try to kill him. "Well, you will see him tomorrow. Then he will do as he sees fit. Now, go!"

I intended to go farther than he meant me to, for I suspected that Funes might be ugly-tempered in the morning; but I gave no sign of my intentions. I only said:

"Bueno. But give me my rifle, which I left here. I may need it before sunrise."

He grinned a little and ordered that my gun be brought. By this time other men had gathered, but none came too near. When my rifle was in my hands I said to those watching:

"I go walking, and I sleep alone. Let none of you try to follow. Amalio, thank you, and buen' noche'."

"Buen' noche'," he yawned. And I walked away into the dark, and none followed.

I walked southward, as if heading for the house where I usually slept when in the town. But at the first dark corner I slipped around and loped down toward the river Atabapo, where my loaded curial lay.

Whether my crew of mestizos, who usually paddled me as far as my first sitio on the Ventuari, was at the canoe now I did not know, though I had ordered that two men sleep there in order to prevent thievery from my supplies. But luck was with me—they all were there, gambling on a box-top and laughing or cursing as the tumbling dice gave them suertes or azares. My movements since the fight had been so rapid that nobody had yet come down to tell them about it.

"We have now," I said, jumping among them before they realized that I was arriving. "Out into the river! Move!"

They gaped a second or two. One spoke.

"Leave now? Tonight? In darkness?"

"We leave now!" I growled. "There is trouble. Unless we jump out of here there will be more. Vamos!"

They jumped. Sudden trouble was nothing new to them—they were San Fernando men themselves, of the peon class—and they knew the value of acting first and thinking afterward. In less than a minute we were aboard and had shoved away, and I had blown out the lantern.

"Straight out," I ordered. "Then downstream."

Their paddles thumped for a couple of minutes on the gunwales before any call came from behind. Then sounded a yell.

"Loco León! You dog, you pig, you 2! Come here and fight!"

Lanterns were swinging down the sloping shore toward the spot where the canoe had lain. Somebody had seen me dodge around that corner, and now the dog-pack was beginning to yelp. I cocked my gun and stood up, intending to teach them manners. But then, realizing that my gun-flash would give them a target, I held my fire. With only the dull thump of the receding paddles to shoot at, they were hardly likely to do me any harm; and I had spilled enough blood there for one night.

Getting no answer, they yelped all the more boldly. Half a dozen rifles blazed at me, but the bullets flew wild. My men, without orders, began silencing their strokes. With hardly a sound, we slid on toward the midstream island, the current carrying us downward all the time. Then from the shore sounded a voice speaking loudly to the other men.

"Save your bullets, save your bullets! Let the fool go. Do you not know that Paco Peldóm waits for him at the boca del Ventuari? The gang of Paco will not fail."

A rumble of other voices followed, and the lanterns began to move back toward the streets. Then I answered them in a way that I knew would madden them more than bullets or curses. I laughed; laughed loud and high, as if I found them only amusing and contemptible.

They bawled curses, of course, but I gave none in return. We now were far enough out to avoid the rocky point below the town, and I gave the word to head straight down the river. I was out of San Fernando, and I had no time to think further of what lay behind. I was already figuring on what waited ahead.

As San Fernando lies on a point, with the river Atabapo in front and the Orinoco behind, these enemies of mine might cut across to get me when I passed up the Orinoco. I thought this improbable, however, for it meant half a mile of walking through the night, and they were much more likely to go back to the rum-shop—especially since they knew that Paco Peldóm was waiting for me. It was Paco and his gang, lurking at the mouth of my own river, that gave me some real thinking to do. The drunken fool who blurted that out had done me an unintended favor.

The plot was bigger than I had supposed. This Paco was no balata merchant, like the brothers Argel and others who hated me for business reasons. He was a killer, and head of a small but deadly band of men outlawed from Venezuela, Colombia, and Brazil; one of Funes' tools, and so inhuman that he was nicknamed El Carnicero—the Butcher.

There were many such brutes in the "army" of Funes; for birds of a feather flock together, and Funes, himself a murderous outlaw, drew around him the worst men in three countries. They took orders, of course, from the master cut-throat himself; but they also operated on their own accounts, killing and robbing for loot, for lust, or for pay. During the eight years of terror in the up-Orinoco country, many a hideous crime was committed which Tomás Funes never intended. And if any of his men was worse than this Paco Peldóm, I have not heard of that man.

Now, since I carry little money up the river with me—I leave almost all of it in bank here at Bolívar—Paco could expect no plunder from my boat except my Indian trade-goods, which would hardly tempt him. There had been no trouble between us, so he was not seeking revenge. Funes had shown no desire to kill me yet. The only good reason I could see, then, for this gang to want my life was for pay. And the only people likely to pay them much for their trouble were my business enemies.

So I concluded that those enemies had sent Paco up to the Ventuari to take care of me when I should arrive there, and that the Argel "accident" had come about because Otón was not satisfied to let well enough alone; if I was killed in San Fernando he would not have to pay Paco for my head.

With me dead, perhaps the plan was to seize my balata country in force and compel my Maquiritare friends to work it, or bring in other, weaker Indians, as slaves. With me alive, there was not much chance for those schemers to get anything on the Ventuari except bullets and arrows.

All this I thought over while we slid down the Atabapo and swung around the point into the Orinoco. And then, making a map of the Ventuari and the Orinoco in my mind, I began to laugh.

"Paco," I said to the night, "you and your wolves never fail, no? Well, we shall see."

Chapter 3

III

THE delta of the Ventuari, señores, is a puzzling place. There, two powerful rivers, the Orinoco and the Ventuari, both born in the eastern mountains, meet each other head-on, like a pair of bulls locking boras. Since neither can push the other back into its own mountains, and both must go somewhere, they stagger off westward together until they meet the Atabapo and the Guaviare, which help the Orinoco to go northward again.

I suppose it is this everlasting fight between the two rivers which has gouged out the land all around their meeting-place and made the great Raudal de Santa Barbara. At any rate, the raudal is there, and it is a huge bay full of islands, big and little. And among these islands an experienced riverman can pick quite a number of channels if he will. And I, who had worked rubber for years on the Alto Orinoco before moving to the Ventuari, knew most of the ways through that labyrinth. So, if I had known just where Paco waited to kill me, I could have dodged around his gang with little trouble. That is, I could have done so if he had been among the islands of the delta.

But Paco, too, knew his Orinoco. And, since he was there for the purpose of getting me, he would hardly wait at any place where there was any chance for me to slip past him. He would go far enough up the Ventuari to be clear of the islands, and make camp at some point where he could not fail to see me. He would be a fool to do otherwise.

Yet there was still a way of getting around him. It was a long way and a hard way, and a way open to only one white man in the world—to me, Loco León, rover of the wilds and friend of the Maquiritares. And, rough though that way was, the thought of it was what had made me laugh there on the dark Orinoco; for no road is too hard for the man who would cheat his foes and save his life.

Besides, I had plenty of time and little to do, and I could see a bit of new country by taking this long swing. And so far as my San Fernando friends were concerned, I could disappear completely. Not even the mestizos who now peddled my canoe would be able to tell of my trail.

So I lay back in the carroza and chuckled, and the paddlers thumped on through the darkness with never a word. I knew they had heard that loud voice and what it said, but I did not believe they knew anything more than that; for they had been my crew on the journey to Bolívar and back, and so their recent stop in San Fernando had been no longer than my own; and the plan of having me killed by the Butcher probably was not generally known in the town, since it was made without the knowledge of Funes himself. At the same time, I did not trust them any too much.

When we had gone far enough up the Orinoco to be well beyond the town, I made them work to the north shore and paddle on until the lantern, now burning again, showed us a bare rock. There we tied up.

"You will sleep on the stone," I told them. "And do not come aboard before dawn."

They made no objection. They only asked that I give them the lantern, so that no tigre might pounce on them in the night. Since it is customary to burn a lantern in that way when sleeping so, I let them have it. They picked their places and lay down, and I stretched out inside the little cabin. But I did not sleep at once. They were talking low among themselves, and I knew that presently they would speak a little louder, as they always did when discussing something.

Soon I caught the name "el Carnicero." And before long one argued:

"But no, Tito, why should he spare us? He drinks blood like a murciélago—a vampire bat. Do you think he will let us go to tell of what he did to el capitán? You are simple."

That was what I had listened for. It told me that these men had not been bribed to kill me, and that they worried for fear Paco would murder them as well as me—which was not at all unlikely. So I knew I could sleep peacefully that night.

"Oh, be quiet!" I growled, as if disturbed by their voices. "The Butcher is a fool, and I will make a monkey of him. He will not even see you."

"Como, capitán?" somebody asked eagerly. "How?"

"I will show you. Now be still."

They hushed, and I went to sleep.

At dawn we were up, and at sunrise we were away. And all that day, and all the next, we crawled on up the river undisturbed. Two or three dugouts and one piragua passed us, but all were going down-stream. From San Fernando came no boat.

My men had traveled with' me before, and they knew I had the habit of getting the better of any one who attacked me. They also knew I would pay them well for their work, and that it was best for them not to desert me.

Still, the thought of the Butcher worked on their minds, as was only natural. So did the fact that I, who had not the reputation of running away from anybody, had left the town in such a hurry. And on the second day, as we neared the big raudal, one of them made bold to ask me why Paco wanted me.

I told them I did not know, unless he was hired for the job. I also told them just what had come about at San Fernando, and they laughed about it for half an hour afterward, for none of them liked the Argels. And then, deciding that it was time to hearten them and to tell them what they must know in a few hours, I added:

"Paco waits for us in the Ventuari. Let us wish him a pleasant time there. He thinks himself very clever, but there are many things he does not know. One of them is that on this trip I do not go up the Ventuari, but up the Orinoco."

They stared.

"Como? You are quitting your Ventuari grounds?" one asked.

"The grounds on the lower Ventuari are worked out, and the upper river is so dangerous that it would be very hard to bring out the crop next year," I answered. This was true. "So I shall look at another river."