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Updated: June 18, 2025
He wrung their hands, pounded their shoulders, laughed, cried, swore, all at once. Then he burst out: "Glory be! Ye're alive, homelier 'n ever and tough as tripe! We thought ye was wiped out sure! We was all set to start in the mornin' and pull them Red Bones to pieces. Mebbe we'll do it yet, too. How'd ye break through? Did ye kill Sworn-off and his gang?" "Schwandorf? Gang?
Schwandorf, we thank you for your efficient aid," said Knowlton, extending a hearty hand. "You have helped us to get going with all dispatch, and we trust that we can repay the favor soon." "You owe me no thanks," was the curt reply. "I would expect you to do as much for me if our positions were reversed. I wish you luck." "Get aboard, Tim!" McKay ordered, setting the example himself.
One was that Schwandorf really had gone to Iquitos, where was a radio station. Another was that from that radio station to Puerto Bermudez, thence over the Andes to the coast, and northward to a New York address memorized from Knowlton's notebook, already had gone this message: McKay expedition killed by Indians.
But if Señor Tim had not befriended me I should have died too soon to tell my tale. That is all, señores. Now can you spare a little more tobacco?" They could and they promptly did. With a new cigarette glowing he lay back and looked quizzically at the women lined up before Monitaya. "How many men has Schwandorf?" asked McKay. "About twenty in all, Capitan.
Schwandorf, tongue loosened a bit by his kümmel, chuckled. "Ho-ho! The woman? Leave her, of course, when she had served my purpose. Why bother about a woman here and there?" "I see." McKay's face, indistinct in the gloom, was unreadable, but his tone had a caustic edge. Schwandorf laughed again. "You are fresh from the woman-worshiping United States and you disapprove.
As the boat drew out the two rejected men bade the Americans an ironical "adios," and one spat in the stream. In the faces of the others, however, showed something like respect for the crisp-spoken captain, and José snarled something at the ill-mannered Three and Four. "You might need those men," mumbled Schwandorf. "Guess not," McKay answered, serenely, turning toward the hotel. "Come on, boys.
Finally, in a furious outburst of energy, the American fought his enemy down under him, clamped his body with iron knees, and crashed a terrific punch squarely between the German's glaring eyes. Schwandorf went limp. At that instant a backward eddy of the battle surged over the pair. The maniacal Red Bones, fighting to the last bitter drop of doom, found two white men under their feet.
But why? What's his lay, d'ye s'pose?" "Perhaps José knows," suggested Knowlton. "But he's in no shape to talk now. Let's see. Schwandorf said he was going to Iquitos?" "Yes, but that doesn't mean anything." "Probably not. Well, maybe José can explain." There were some things, however, which José could not have told if he would, for he himself did not know them.
Their pistols emptied, the Americans also drew machetes all except Rand, who had no weapon but the bulletless rifle and waited. Few unwounded Red Bones now were left; but among those few Schwandorf still lived. "Schwandorf!" bellowed McKay. "You yellow cur you Schweinhund! Come and fight!" "Yeah!" taunted Tim. "The women and kids are inside. Come and git 'em!" Schwandorf came.
'Gruss Gott, she said in a friendly voice, and I took off my cap. I saw from my reflection in a saucepan that I looked moderately respectable in spite of my night in the woods. I told her the story of how I was walking from Schwandorf to see my mother at an imaginary place called judenfeld, banking on the ignorance of villagers about any place five miles from their homes.
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