Protection from the Death Drum
BUT wood, leaves are wholly unaffected, I’ve seen the Xinguays turn their terrible, ghastly Death Drum towards the jungle and destroy game, enemies, and yet leave the trees, leaves, ferns, even the delicate flowers untouched. Only animal matter is disintegrated, and not all of that. Skin, integument, hair, are not injured, but the vibrations pass through them and utterly break down other tissues and bone. What is the effective range of the damnable thing? I don’t know. Half a mile at least, perhaps more.
At certain times of the year vast numbers of water fowl came to the lake. I’ve seen the Death Drum bring these down by hundreds, thousands, and the lake was fully half a mile from the village. It was like a cannon in a way. It could be swung to right or left, elevated or depressed, aimed in any direction.
You said three airplanes vanished in the Pajonal. I found them. Twisted masses of metal and wood overgrown with vines and brush. I had learned to talk Xinguay fairly well by that time, and I asked the Indians about the planes. They seemed greatly surprised when I told them they were white men’s machines and were flown by human beings. They had thought them giant birds, they told me—dangerous, gigantic birds of prey coming to attack them. So they had turned to their one greatest means of self-protection and defense—the Death Drum—and had “killed” the great birds. They were puzzled to find the birds’ “bones” had not been destroyed. But as the planes had taken fire when the pilots had been disintegrated and they had plunged into the forest, there were no traces of human beings for the Xinguays to find.
But I’m getting way ahead of my story. I must go back—back to that awful day when I sat there, alone, a solitary white man in the Xinguay village with all that remained of my nine comrades laid to rest among the bodies of the Indians in the burial caves in the mountain side.
CHAPTER III
OF course I had gathered the fire arms. There were six rifles and eight revolvers—I never carried a pistol myself—a regular arsenal for one man. But it was awful trying to get the ammunition. I took one cartridge belt—from what had been Matson—but I almost fainted before I got it. But the Indians didn’t mind—they were accustomed to such sights—and when I made them understand what I wanted they brought me all the cartridges there were. The one really sensible thing that Matson had done was to see to it that all the rifles and pistols were of the same calibre and used the same ammunition. I almost forgave him all the rest because of that foresight, for I had about four hundred rounds that I could use in any one of the guns. With care that should last me a long time, I decided. And it might be a long time before I had a chance to get out of the Pajonal. Of course I didn’t need so many fire-arms. But some of them might give out or get rusty so I decided to keep them all—at least for a time. And I would see to it that they weren’t loaded—the Xinguays might get fooling with them; and I’d keep one revolver ready for use in case of emergency. But the main thing that occupied my mind as I sat there, while the Indians were off conducting the funeral, was how I could manage to escape and find my way back to civilization.
After a time the Xinguays returned and held a council. I couldn’t understand what they said, but I guessed they were discussing my case. And I judged by their tones that they didn’t agree about me. But I wasn’t worried. You know how it is. You’ve been in a lot of tight places yourself, and you know how, after a man has gone through a lot and has dangers confronting him wherever he turns, he gets so accustomed to them that they don’t mean anything to him. It just doesn’t seem to matter, you know. That’s the way I felt. I wasn’t afraid any more. If worse came to worst I could make an awful mess of things—with my guns and four hundred cartridges—before I used the last one on myself. In fact I found myself unconsciously filling the guns’ magazines. But guns wouldn’t be much use as long as the Xinguays had that damnable Death Drum. For a moment I even had a wild idea of destroying or smashing the thing—a few well placed rifle bullets would do the trick. But that, I knew, would make my death certain. And if the Indians did decide to get rid of me, it was not likely they would go to the trouble of using the Death Drum to kill me. If they had wanted to do so, they could have killed me at any time, while I’d been dazed, half crazy, almost faint, standing over by the bodies of Matson and the others. No, I didn't think I was in any peril as far as the Indians were concerned. They regarded me almost as a sort of god—a dead man come to life. And they thought me crazy. I’d have to play the fool if I stayed among them long. If I acted like a rational being all the time they might begin to think me a sham.
The Honesty of Primitive Indians
AFTER a time the council broke up and the chief and another man came over to where I was sitting. Oh, I forgot to mention that I had our nine machetes, as well as the guns. They were my real treasure. Any Indian would give anything he owned for one of them. Of course they could have helped themselves and I wouldn’t have been in any position to protest. But really primitive Indians are honest, as you know, and I counted on that. Well, the chief began to talk. and use signs. For a time I couldn’t get the drift of what he meant, but when it finally dawned upon me I began to think I must be really crazy. He was asking my forgiveness for having killed the rest of the party! He and his people hadn’t realized, he told me, that the white men were gods—Imagine, Matson a god! If I demanded it, he went on, he would order the girl who had caused the trouble, to be sacrificed to appease the
