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The lieutenant heaved himself into a sitting position, stared around, clapped a hand to his right shoulder, looked at the red smear his palm brought away, reeled up, and scrambled back to his rifle. Schwandorf's bullet had drilled clear through the shoulder, and in falling his head had struck one of the upright poles.
"Indeed yes, señor. I did not expect such generosity." "That's all right, then. We'll fix you up before we move on, and Say! Are you in Schwandorf's pay, too?" José hesitated. Then he replied: "Since you mention it, I will admit that el Aleman offered me certain inducements to make this journey. I now see that he had no intention of meeting his promises.
Schwandorf's hand, conveying the first mouthful of beans upward, stopped in air. His black eyes fixed the Americans with an astounded stare. He lowered the beans, stabbed absently at a chunk of beef, sawed it apart, popped a piece of it into his mouth, and sat for a time chewing.
When his roar had subsided and the two former officers had sat silent a moment, smiling over his nocturnal adventures, the door of Schwandorf's room opened abruptly and the German stepped out. "Morgen," he grunted, striding to the table. "Thomaz!" "Si, Senhor Sssondoff." The youth faded away into the kitchen quarters. "Always feel grumpy until I eat," grumbled the blackbeard.
The five invaders were about theirs. As the paddlers dipped, however, Knowlton held back. "Say, Rod, we didn't tell these fellows about Schwandorf's Indian. Hold up a second, men." While all rested on their paddles he spoke of the mysterious messenger dispatched from Nazareth. Pedro and Lourenço contemplated the river, then frowned. "That may be of importance, senhores," said Lourenço.
Corks were drawn, liquids gurgled, matches flared, cigars glowed. Without warning Schwandorf shot a question through the gloom: "Have you seen Cabral the superintendent?" "Yes." "Ask him about the wild man?" "Yes." "Get any information?" "Nothing definite. He suggested that we see you." "So." A pause, while Schwandorf's cigar end glowed like a flaming eye.
The steersman, whose copper-brown skin and flat face betokened a heavy strain of Indian blood, gazed stolidly at the Americans with the unwinking, expressionless eyes of a snake. Back into the minds of McKay and Knowlton came Schwandorf's words, "Men not afraid of hell or high water." They looked it. "Here they are," announced the German, stepping ashore deliberately.
But the facial design was much different: two short transverse stripes on the forehead, and three lines on each cheek, running from the eyes, the end of the nose, and the corners of the mouth, straight back to the ears. Studying those visages, Knowlton and McKay recalled Schwandorf's statement that these people not only ate human flesh, but tortured prisoners of war.
From the time of the landing at Remate de Males, however, he narrated events more fully, giving complete details of Schwandorf's activities, Francisco's offense, and the final attack by the crew. While he talked the coronel's frown deepened. Also, José gradually assumed the expression of a thundercloud. And when the tale was done the puntero exploded. "Sangre de Cristo!" he yelled.
See, Capitao." McKay looked down on a leg bone. At some time the leg had been broken and badly set, if set at all. The bone was crooked. "A short Indian with a crooked leg. Schwandorf's messenger!" "Si. No man will ever receive the message he bore. He camped here days ago. Now he camps here forever."
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