The Thirty Gang/Chapter 4
IV
RODRIGUEZ stood there a moment with his rifle half-raised, his thumb on its hammer, and his eyes on us. He was by no means handsome at any time, and now, scowling and glowering, he looked an ugly brute indeed. His men, who were mestizos like my own, kept wooden faces.
"Who in are these men?" he growled. I was still sitting in the carróza, and he could not see me well.
"The crew of Loco León," one of his paddlers told him. I crept out and stood up, and as Rodriguez looked at me his face grew uglier than before.
"Buenas tardes, Ramón," I greeted him. "Do you travel up or down?"
"What is that to you?" he snarled. "What in the name of el diablo are you doing up here, León?"
"I am riding in a curial, as you can see for yourself," I coolly replied. "And I am stopping to eat almuerzo with you."
With that my canoe grounded, and, holding my rifle forward, I stepped overboard and ashore, looking him in the eye all the time.
He opened his jaws as if to say something, but thought better of it. With a sour grumble he stepped back a little, glancing down at the woman. After swiftly surveying his men and noting that they showed no sign of backing their disagreeable master, I too looked at her.
She was looking straight back at me with much interest. As I have said, I am the only blond Venezolano on the whole upper Orinoco, and when I travel on the big river I always let the hair grow on my face—it helps to keep off the mosquitoes; and by this time my yellow beard was quite long and very odd-looking in that land of black hair. My blue eyes, too, always are noticed by strangers who are used to seeing only brown or black ones.
So, being accustomed to stares from people who had not seen me before, I gave no attention to her steady regard. What interested me was the fact that she was there with Rodriguez.
She was young, just past her girlhood—perhaps fifteen years old; the Indian girls in our country become women early, and the change is swift. She was plump, strongly built, firm-breasted, and very light of skin; light even for the forest-dwelling Maquiritares, who are much more fair than the Guahibos and other Indians of the sunburned plains. Except for the fact that her face had the flatness so often found among Indians, she was attractive to the eye of almost any Venezolano.
"Did you come here to eat or to look at my woman?" Rodriguez demanded roughly.
"To eat. But since the woman is here, I look at her. And since I know something about Maquiritares, Ramón, I ask you how you got her. The Maquiritares do not let their girls go out to live with Venezolanos."
"No?" he sneered. "You see that this one goes out with me, do you not? Your Maquiritares have nothing to say about it—or you either. What Ramón Rodriguez wants, he takes."
He was putting more force behind every word, working into his usual loud boldness. I decided to show him and all the listeners where he stood in the opinion of Loco León.
"You need not yell at me," I told him. "I am not deaf. And do not forget that while any dog can growl and show his teeth, it is one thing to bark and another to anger a león. The wise cur is the one who knows enough to make little noise when the león is near enough to use his claws."
Ramón had to fight then and there or give ground. He did not fight; did not even make a move to show he thought of fighting. After a very quiet minute, while all the others held their breath, he laughed loudly, as if at a good joke.
"You are becoming wise, I see," I went on. "But not so wise, either. You seem to have barked yourself into the belief that you are a guapo. And because the Maquiritares are quiet, good-humored fellows you think they are Macos. You are mistaken, both in yourself and in them." [1]
I glanced down again at the girl, and back at him.
"If you took this girl away as you say, you will find that her people will say something about it if you ever come here again," I added. "But you never took her so. You would not dare. So she must be going with you of her own will, though I cannot understand why. She certainly cannot have fallen in love with your mud-turtle face."
At this my mestizos cackled, and even the men of Rodriguez snickered. Ramón seemed to bloat with rage. I had told him the exact truth about himself, and it stung as the truth sometimes does. And to be ridiculed so before men who would tell it all over San Fernando was more than he could stand.
"I would not dare?" he yelled. "I, Ramón Rodriguez, would fear those Indios? Caramba! I fear nobody—neither Maquiritare nor Loco León! I took this woman today from her people—threw her into my curial and made her come! And I stop here to eat—I take my time—I do not run from her whole tribe! Let them come on if they dare! Bah! They know better than to follow Ramón Rodriguez!"
He was shouting again, as usual, to prove how brave he was—as if bravery were a matter of mouth. But his way of saying it made me think perhaps he was telling the truth about his way of gaining the girl. I took my eyes off him long enough to glance at the faces of his men; and one of them nodded to me. The others looked around them a little uneasily. It was true. Rodriguez had stolen the girl.
"Then you are a bigger fool than I thought," I told him. "I had already decided that I would not eat at your fire, but now I do not even want to talk longer to you."
With that I stepped away from him—though I did not turn my back to him and ordered my men to make our own fire at a little distance from that of the Rodriguez crowd.
I was not yet through with talking to him, for I intended to say a good deal more about that girl-stealing before he should go on down the river. But just then he offended me as would something rotten. I felt like breathing cleaner air. Why I should feel so I do not know, for I am used to rough things, and woman-stealing was nothing new in the Rio Negro country. Perhaps it was because I liked Maquiritares and disliked Rodriguez.
Looking over at them from my own fire, I saw that the girl could not keep her eyes off me. Rodriguez saw it too, and growled at her; then, when she still watched me, he gave her a shove that threw her on her back. She rolled over and rose to her feet in one quick move, and for an instant she stood looking dumbly at him. Cursing, he lunged at her again. With another swift movement she dodged him. And then she dashed around him and came running straight to me.
"Ha!" said I to myself. "This makes it much more simple."
The girl had puzzled me a little. Until now she had given no sign of dislike for Rodriguez; and it is always possible that when a woman is carried off by a man she is not very unwilling, and in that case another man is likely to make a fool of himself by interfering. But now she was fleeing from him to me for protection—and I was very glad to give it to her.
In no time at all she was beside me; and, looking me in the eye and pointing back at him, she shook her head. I gave her a nod and pushed her behind me. Then I waited for Rodriguez to act.
He stared, his mouth twisting in muttered oaths. Then, his face black, he came walking swiftly toward us, cocking his gun as he strode over the sand. Whether he would have had the courage to attack me at the end I never shall know. He never reached me.
A sudden rush sounded in the dense bush beyond the sand. No life had made itself known in that green tangle since I landed; but now it appeared with the suddenness of a squall. Out on the sand bounded human tigers, coming with the speed of the storm-wind.
Rodriguez halted in mid-stride, his feet wide apart. For a second he seemed paralyzed. Then, with a hoarse cry of fear, he swung his gun and fired without aim. And that was the end of him.
The brown men were on him. Machetes gleamed in the sun-light. There was a chop—chop—chop of blades, a crunching sound of bones split and severed, a horrible bubbling gasp. Then Rodriguez disappeared. I could see only a little ring of Maquiritares, a blur of red steel rapidly swinging up and down.
Chop—chop—chop—chop! Then silence. The bush-knives were still. Some one grunted. It was the first human sound the Indians had made since they burst from the trees.
They looked swiftly around; at the mestizos of Rodriguez, who still were paralyzed, and at us. Then, their eyes blazing, their skins smeared with great gouts of red, their machetes dripping, they walked steadily toward us.
Ramón Rodriguez was gone. Where he had last stood was a crimson mess which was not a man, nor even parts of a man; a hash of cloth and hair and meat that was only a hideous blob on the clean sand. Watching those grim-faced killers advance on us, I cocked my rifle and braced myself.
"Alto ahí!" I commanded. "Halt where you are!"
They came straight on. But one spoke in Spanish.
"We know you, Loco León. You are a friend."
At once I lowered the gun. Since they recognized me, I was in no danger. A few steps more, and they stopped beside me. After looking a minute at the young woman, who had come from behind me, they turned their eyes again to me.
"Why are you here?" asked one.
"I come to visit the Maquiritares," I answered. "How do you know me? None of my Padamo friends are among you."
"We heard you talk with Ramón. We heard your name. We have heard of Loco León."
"I see. You now go back to your paragua?"
"It is so."
"I go with you."
"It is good."
The paddlers of Rodriguez were sneaking now to their canoe. The Maquiritares turned and watched them, but made no move toward them. I called to them.
"You need not run. These men would have killed you before now if they intended to do so. Wait, and you shall have companions."
To my own crew I said:
"You had best leave me here. Go back to San Fernando with those men. I will pay you now."
They were only too glad to leave me, after what they had just seen; for they knew that though Loco León might be welcome among those killers, they themselves had no such welcome. And I too knew that I should be better off without them. It had been my intention to send them back as soon as my curial should reach the Maquiritare settlement, as my further movements were to be made with the knowledge of the Indians alone. Now it was best for all that I get rid of them here.
So I paid them, and they crowded into the Rodriguez canoe. At once the double crew pushed out and shot down-stream, turning their heads for one last look at the awful thing that had been Ramón. Then they were gone.
"Once more I am among my friends," I said. "It is good."
And the Maquiritares, their hard eyes on the fragments of the man who had outraged their tribe, echoed—
"It is good."
- ↑ Guapo—in Venezuela, a, bold "bad-man." The Macos are notorious cowards.