The Ogre (Friel)

by Arthur O. Friel

 

Arthur O. Friel’s

New Complete Novelette

of the Amazon Country

relating the further

Adventures of Sixto Scott

The Ogre

LET ME correct you on that point, señor.

Those man-eating fish known as caribes are not named after the old Caribe—or Carib—Indians. It’s quite natural for you to think so, since you know the Caribs were fierce fighters and once owned all this Orinoco region. But the truth is just the reverse. That word caribe means “cannibal.” And the Indians got the name because they were supposed to be man-eaters, and the fish because they certainly are.

Personally, I don’t believe that the Indians hereabouts ever were anthropophagi, except possibly on rare occasions when they were forced into cannibalism by famine or made blood-mad by war. Yes, I know that the Spanish conquistadors gave them that reputation. But if you will look up that point in history you will find that the only authenticated cases of cannibalism in Venezuela were those where the cannibals were the conquistadors themselves. Yes, sir! White men—Spaniards and Germans—ate Indians! And what’s more, they ate them when the Indians had offered them other food. They became ogros; ogres.^[1]

So I should hardly put much faith in what those noble conquerors said about the Indians. I’d say they were either malicious liars or ignorant liars, but liars anyway. And most of their descendants are just as ignorant of the Indians today, and just as ready to believe the worst about them. Take my Guahibos, for example, my brown Indies of the Colombian plains, who trade me their hammocks and paddle my boats and always make me welcome at their settlements. In all the years I’ve known them, they never have lifted a hand against me. And yet, because they have killed a few Venezuelans who were badly in need of killing, men along this Orinoco are always predicting that they’ll do the same to me—yes, and maybe eat me afterward. Not content with calling them savages and assassins, they have to insinuate that they’re caribes as well. Bah! There’s about as much chance of my being eaten by them as by the Ogre of Atures.

Pardon? You haven’t heard of that ogre? Well, hombre, then you’ve missed something. I thought you’d have heard of that affair when you were making the overland portage at Atures to get around the rapids. It was one of the queerest things that ever happened hereabouts—and that’s saying a good deal, for there has been more than one weird happening in this up-river country. If all the men who have mysteriously disappeared up here could come back, they would have some strange tales to tell. And if their ghosts could walk up to this camp-fire tonight and stand here looking as their bodies looked when last seen, you’d need several drinks to make you sleep, I’ll bet. Many of them would be headless—men decapitated with machetes by the outlaw army of Coronel Funes—and some battered out of shape by death in the rapids, and some torn apart by crocodiles; some crushed to pulp by serpents, some bloated by snake venom, some emaciated by starvation; and more than a few would be decorated with bullet-holes or knife-stabs, or with arrows and poisoned darts. But in all the lot none would startle you like the gleaming white skeletons of the men caught by the ogre.

It was back in the time of Funes, the last year of his eight-year reign here, when this thing came about. Funes had the whole Territorio de Amazonas in his grip, and maintained the usual garrison at Atures, where the Territory began or ended, according to whether you were traveling south or north. As you know, Atures is at the lower end of the great rapids, and, because everything moving up or down the river must pass overland there, it was an important strategic point for him, controlling everything above. So he kept a strong gang there, under an officer who enforced discipline almost as good as that of a decent army.

That officer naturally had to be a hard case himself in order to boss a garrison made up of robbers, murderers and worse. And the captain in charge there that last year was about as hard as they come. What his real name was I don’t know—many of the Funes outfit had left their own names far behind them—but the one he used was Atroz. It fitted. It means, you know, either “atrocious” or “enormous,” and he was both. His cruelty was notorious, and he was as big as I am; bigger, in truth, for he was bloated from drink and inaction, while I keep myself lean by long journeys. Not that he was unwieldy; he could handle himself if he needed to; but he seldom needed to. Every man in the Atures gang was afraid of him, and all he had to do was to look hard at one of those cutthroats and lick his lips in a way he had, and that tough bird would sweat blood. He was the man for the place, was Atroz.

When he first came there, I heard, one or two of the gang tried to do him in, and what he did to those chaps in return was something the rest never forgot. He didn’t just kill them—that would have been too mercifully short to suit him. He left them alive, but whimpering wrecks that were only half human afterward. From that time on he had nothing to do but to carry on the routine and amuse himself with rum and women. His boss, the Coronel, seldom came to Atures, as he wasn’t fond of making the fifty-league trip from San Fernando down through the worst mosquito-cursed section of the river; and whenever he did come he found things as he wanted them. As long as Atroz ran the place right Funes didn’t care how he amused himself. So the big brute could be as brutal as he liked. And he was.

I got on well enough with him, though, when I made my trips through Atures. For that matter, I never had any real trouble with any Funes men anywhere. I was out of their jurisdiction, so to speak, being a Colombian, with my headquarters a long way west of the Orinoco; and besides, it was well known that I was just a hammock trader who minded my own business and let others do the same; so nobody troubled me much. As for Atroz himself, he seemed to take a liking for me, for no particular reason. Maybe it was because we were of about the same size physically. Anyway, on my first trip through Atures after his appointment I found him quite affable—that is, after he sized me up. His first greeting was a bit harsh. That, though, was his attitude toward everybody, a sort of official habit; and I heard of it before I saw him, so it didn’t anger me as it otherwise might.

I first learned about him at Salvajito, which, as you know, is the upper port of the long portage. There’s not even a house there now, but in those days there was a sort of outpost station at the place, with half a dozen men to take turns at guard duty, and a corporal in command. Another outpost, twice as strong, under a sargento, was stationed at Zamuro, the lower port, where the piraguas and canoes lay. Atures itself, you remember, is about midway between the two ports, near the little black Rio Catañapo, which flows in from the mountains at the east.

Well, when I landed myself and my cargo at Salvajito I found the corporal in charge there to be one Roco, who had always been quite friendly to me; and while I was waiting for the carts to come we exchanged a little gossip. This Roco, I noticed at once, was more snappy and soldierly than he had ever been before, and more wary in his talk. In fact, he was about as loquacious as a spider while his men were within earshot. Answering one of my questions, he told me the place now was under command of Capitan Atroz; but not another word would he say about Atroz, even when I joked about the name; and his men were even more dumb than he. After a while, though, we drifted off to one side, and then he opened up.

“El Capitan Atroz,” says he, glancing around and speaking low, “is one to handle with care, Sixto. You will have to meet him; every one passing up or down must come before him. He is harsh in his ways, and he is master here; and if you say anything to give him offense you may wish you had not come here. Speak him fair.”

“Sí?” says I, drawing at my cigarrillo “And what do you think he could do to a poor little invalid like me?”

“One never knows what he may do, but it is most likely to be unpleasant,” he answered, with another look around. “His name is not without meaning, be sure of that. And he is as big as you, or bigger. And anything he commands to be done will be done pronto. I am giving you friendly warning.”

“Gracias,” I nodded. “I appreciate it. An atrocious hombre, this Atroz, eh? But tell me, now, does he rob peaceable travelers?”

“Oh, he takes what he likes, of course.” Roco shrugged. “But since you have only hammocks he probably will not disturb you in that way.” Then he grinned and added: “If you had a handsome woman with you it might be different.”

“Ah, so that is his preference?” I asked.

“Truly. He is a glutton for young women. Any man who brings one to Atures now is a fool.”

“You mean that he takes the women of his soldiers?”

“He takes the woman of any man,” says Roco, “if he fancies her. If the man objects—”

He slid a finger across his throat.

“A jolly fellow, in truth,” says I. “And what does he do with the women when he tires of them?”

“Well, he does not tire of them quickly,” he told me. “He likes to keep them as slaves. When he is in the mood he tortures one of them to hear her scream. He is very ingenious in such matters.”

“Umph!” I grunted, scowling a bit. “And how many has he now?”

“Eight,” he said. “There were two others, but they drowned themselves, and so— But no, I am wrong. There are nine instead of eight. He caught a new one only yesterday, a young half-Indian who came down the Catañapo with an Indio man from the mountains. That was a queer thing, too, a half-white girl coming down from those high selvas where only Indians live. Some romantic white man must have gone up there fifteen or eighteen years ago, though nobody knows who he was.”

“Queer things happen,” I remarked. “Did the Indian object to parting with her?”

“Yes, he was quite offensive about the matter. He said he was the son of a chief and would bring his men to kill Atroz. The fool! Atroz killed him instead—slowly, poco á poco—making the girl watch as he worked. She knows now who her master is.”

Just then a couple of the men approached, and Roco said hurriedly:

“Por amor de Dios, say nothing of what I have told you! I have talked too much, and if Atroz should hear that my tongue is loose—”

“Sixto Scott carries no tales,” I rebuked him. “Now if there is any small thing I can buy for you at Ciudad Bolivar—”

“I could make use of some new alpargatas,” he suggested, looking down at his worn-out sandals.

“You shall have them,” I promised. And no more was said, except the usual things concerning the moving of my cargo.

It was late in the day when I walked into the pueblo of Atures, and there was no chance of having my stuff ferried across the Catañapo and carried on to Zamuro before morning. So, after sending my peónes to the rancho of Tolomeo Otero, who ran the transport service at that time, I went with the sargento of the guard to the house of Atroz to pass inspection. Two sentries were sitting at his doorway, one on either side, and both stood up with a snap as he approached. They let the sargento pass, but held me outside until he returned, standing stiff and wooden with rifles ready and eyes fixed on me. When I spoke to them they gave me no answer. One of them, though, let his eyes slide toward the door a second and then shook his head about a quarter of an inch. Whether he was trying to warn me to be careful, or just telling me he dared not talk on duty, I don’t know. Anyway, it was clear that Atroz had them scared dumb.

When the sargento took me inside it seemed that his genial capitán meant to try to scare me too. Sitting at a table, with a big revolver lying close to his right hand, he scowled at me as if minded to murder me where I stood. And he was as ugly as his name and reputation. Very swarthy, he was, with the heavy jaw and thick lips of a negro, the high cheekbones and coarse straight hair of an Indian, but the strong nose and straight-set eyes of a Spaniard. The eyes—brown—had a shine like those of a cat torturing a mouse, though they were heavily bloodshot from habitual rum-drinking; and when he spoke he showed his teeth as if ready to bite.

“Who are you?” he snapped. “And what have you?”

He knew the answers already, of course, having been told my business by the sargento. It was just his usual way of cowing whoever came in. But I replied:

“Sixto Scott, of the Rio Vichada, with my usual cargo of hammocks. Nothing of any particular value.”

With that I picked up a paper of cigarrillos from his table, drew one out, lighted it, and blew smoke, grinning at him. The sargento looked scared, and Atroz himself seemed astonished and angered by my nerve.

“But,” says I, unconcerned, “the Guahibo hammocks are very strong, as you probably know, and if you need a good hammock I shall be glad to give you one of my best. We big men wear them out rather fast.”

He sat there scowling as fiercely as before, but after a minute a little smile seemed to flicker in his eyes. He looked me all over, from sombrero to alpargatas and back. Then he snapped at the sargento—

“Vaya!”

And to me, when the officer had gone almost at a run, he said in a grumbling tone—

“Sit.”

I sat, smoked, and looked at him, and he at me. Soon he took a cigaret himself. When it was going he growled:

“I will take the hammock, hombre. My old one is a rotten thing of moriche, always breaking cords. Have you any decent rum?”

“Not a drop, decent or indecent,” says I. “Have you?”

At that he grinned a bit.

“You are a cool one,” he grunted.

I said nothing. He looked me all over once more, and then went on:

“But one must be cool of head to live among those Guahibo tigres, eh? And hard of hand too, eh?”

“Perhaps.” I shrugged. There was little sense in telling a man of his type that my way of getting on with Indians was by treating them decently, not by abusing them. “I perceive that you have heard of me, since you know I live in the Guahibo country.”

“Sí,” he admitted. “The name of Sixto Scott has come to me. Men say you are loco.”

“Quite likely they are right,” I grinned. “But being crazy is like being drunk; if one enjoys it, why be sensible or sober?”

That fetched a chuckle from him. Without replying, he clapped his big hands together. Almost at once a door behind him opened. There stood a young woman, who timidly said—

“Capitán?”

“Ron!” he commanded, without looking around.

She stepped back, taking a quick look at me as she did so. Only a few seconds passed before she reappeared, bringing a small jug and two thick cups. She set these on the table and stood there, wooden.

“Pour two,” he growled.

She poured out the white rum, and very carefully passed a cup to him.

“Serve el señor," he grunted.

She fetched the other cup to me. Her eyes did not rise above my hand. When I had taken the cup she turned to him and again stood waiting.

“Vaya!”

She went, like a soldier. As she closed the door she flashed one more look at me. And I, though I kept my face as wooden as hers, swore a little inside as I remembered what Roco had said about his captain’s slaves. This woman was one of them; young and quite good-looking, but so thoroughly a slave that she dared not make a move without command, dared not even glance at another man when her master’s eyes were on her. Behind his back, her face showed a faint animation indicating that she had once been a girl of spirit; but her dumb apathy before him proved that that spirit now was crushed.

But that was no concern of mine, and, since I was supposed to know nothing about the affairs of Atroz, I held my tongue, except to say “Salud” as I lifted the cup. The rum was plain caballo blanco, and very rough, but I put it away without batting an eye. He handled his own drink even more easily. So far as I could see, he did not swallow at all, letting the harsh stuff run down his throat like water down a pipe. Then he patted his belly and licked his heavy mustache.

“Cra! That sizzles when it hits the stomach, eh?” he grinned. “Liquor and love—what would life be without them, eh, hombre? Sometimes they are a trifle raw to the taste, but one must have them. How do you find the Guahibo women, you king of Indios?”

“Why, they are much like other women,” I told him. “Most of them are uninteresting to a man of discrimination, but here and there can be found one worth having.”

“Ah, sí, there is truth in that,” he nodded. “Few of them are worth keeping, except as animals. But you are a lucky devil—you have hundreds to choose from, eh? It is not so here. I should like to exchange places with you for a while, Sixto.”

The catty eyes leered at me, and he chuckled fatly.

“Well, I don’t know that I want your job, amigo,” I said. “This Atures is not to my liking as a place to stay. But the Rio Vichada lies open to you whenever you wish to visit it.”

There was little chance of his making such a visit, of course—the Vichada was too far away—and less chance of his coming out of it alive if he meddled with Guahibo women. But it cost me nothing to give him that sort of answer, and it pleased him well enough. He scowled out through a window at the pueblo as if he hated it—probably he was sick of its monotony—but then he grinned a little as he imagined himself seizing women right and left in my country. Without recalling his slave, he filled the rum-cups again and threw his drink down his gullet as before. I drank a little of mine, and took another cigarrillo.

“I will come to see you some day,” he promised. “Pick out some of your prettiest girls for me. Now tell me something about life over there. I have not heard much about the Guahibos from one who knows them.”

So I told him the sort of things that seemed likely to interest him: stories of fights and killings and slave-raids, and such stuff. We both drank as we pleased, and between the stories and the drinks he grew more mellow all the time. After a while he swung the subject back to women, and I talked of the Guahibo girls. Finally, seeing that the sun was down, and feeling hungry, I stood up to go.

“Well, it is time to eat,” I reminded him. “And, by the way, I think my cargo has not yet been inspected and passed—”

“To the —— with it,” he said, amiably enough. “I will send it through without inspection. Have another drink.”

“No more now,” I refused. “I have had enough. The next drinks shall be on me, when I come back from Bolivar. I’ll fetch you some liquor you will like—the real old Maracaibo.”

“Bueno!” He licked his lips again. “You are a man after my own heart. Till our next meeting, then, vaya con Dios!”

“The same to you,” says I, and I started out. As I reached the door, though, he stopped me with a word.

“Wait,” he commanded, with a queer grin. He clapped his hands again. The door behind him opened, and a woman—not the same one—stood there to receive his orders. He growled something at her, and she drew back and was gone. From beyond came some low, quick words, followed by a soft shuffle of feet. Then, moving rather lifelessly, through the doorway came a file of women, all glancing at me, then looking at him. He growled again, and they lined up against the wall on each side of the opening and stood still.

Nine of them, there were; all barefoot, all wearing loose wrappers, all quite young and light of skin. None was really white, but none was as dark as Atroz. None of them was really handsome, either, but several would have been more than passably good-looking if their expressions had not been so dull. A cheerless, hopeless lot they were, with no sign of feeling—except one. That one, the last to enter, had a rebellious expression, and her dark eyes seemed to burn with anger and hate.

Atroz looked them all over, licking his lips, and grinning in a half drunken way. Then said he:

“As I was saying, amigo, you are a man after my own heart. And since you are so thoughtful in the matter of the Maracaibo-one good turn deserves another, as the saying is. Perhaps you would like a companion this evening, or possibly two of them. If so, I am sure any of these—ah—ladies will be pleasant company for you. All but this one.”

He turned a thick thumb toward the girl with the resentful look.

“Her temper is not so good—yet,” he went on, his grin becoming cruel. “But all the others are of agreeable dispositions. Take your choice from them.”

The girls were not afraid to gaze at me after that. All but the sullen one watched me. That one seemed not to understand what he was saying, and, although she gave me a short glance, she showed no indication of interest. Remembering Roco’s talk, I knew she must be the captain’s latest capture—the girl from the mountains—and that she probably comprehended little of the Spanish tongue. After that one look at me she stood glowering at Atroz, and if wishes could kill he would have dropped dead from his chair. Plainly she was not yet broken to his will.

After observing her a minute I again surveyed the rest, finding little more life in their faces than before. One or two of them appeared willing enough to go with me, but the others had that same listless expression. For my part, I felt less interest in any of them than they showed for me. I’m not much interested in any woman at first sight, anyway, unless she’s strikingly attractive, and none of these girls impressed me at all. Besides, the whole thing rather sickened me. So I just said:

“Thanks, amigo. All these little ladies are good companions, I’ve no doubt. But to be frank, I have a mean headache—maybe a touch of fever, though I hope it’s only sun—and I think I’d better sleep it off. Wait until I bring back the Maracaibo, and then perhaps we can all have a large evening together.”

I grinned at all the girls, and most of them smiled back at me, while Atroz chuckled at the thought of an orgy. The girl with the burning eyes looked at me again, too, and this time she kept looking. I don’t believe she understood my words, but perhaps my voice interested her. Anyway, we looked straight at each other a few seconds, and somehow I forgot all about the rest of them. Something in those eyes seemed to catch me and hold me.

“Bien. That is a good thought,” came the voice of Atroz. “Bring enough of the Maracaibo, and we shall have a night you will remember long after you go back to your Indios.”

“Right,” said I, taking my attention off the girl. “Buen’ noche’.”

And I left the house. As I passed out of the room, though, I glanced back. The mountain girl still was watching me. And when I walked away through the pueblo to the rancho of Otero I still could see her eyes.

Not being a reader of minds, I don’t claim to be able to tell a woman’s thoughts by the way she looks at me, unless she makes them unmistakable; and what was inside that girl’s head when she fixed her attention on me I don’t know. For a while afterward, though, I felt like trying to help her escape from the prison she was in. But there was no chance of getting her out of Atroz’s grip before he tired of her, and after that it wouldn’t do much good, probably. And I felt that if any way to freedom did open she would make use of it without help from me. Maybe she would open her own way. If she could get hold of a knife she would be likely to open Atroz’s throat too. I wished her luck.

At the rancho I made my night arrangements, talked a while with Otero, and slept. Otero usually was a talkative sort of chap, but he had little to say now, and nothing at all about Atroz. Like everybody else, he was afraid of the big boss. So I left him early and turned in.

In the morning I chose a good hammock and sent it to Atroz, who returned a curt “Gracias." And when my stuff was under way I proceeded to Zamuro, and so down the river to Bolivar. There I did my usual business and took my usual holiday. When I sailed into the Zamuro port again I had been gone about two months.

DURING my absence there had been changes in the Zamuro outpost, and, as luck would have it, the sargento in charge there on my return was the fellow who had taken me to the headquarters of Atroz. He knew, of course, that I had gotten on well with his fierce capitán; so he met me in an affable way. In fact, he still was amused by the memory of my gall in helping myself to the cigarets of the scowling tyrant, and about the first thing he said was:

“Ah, Sixto, you have returned to smoke more cigarrillos of the capitán? Or have you brought your own this time?”

“I have a few for my good friend the sargento,” I said, giving him a package of Emperadores. “And for your jolly chief I have brought something that may make him even more jovial.”

“A case of rum,” he guessed. “Cra, he needs it!”

“Ah, so?” I asked. “His fortune has not been good of late?”

I meant, of course, fortune in capturing women. The sargento understood, but he did not grin, even though nobody was near enough to catch our talk. Instead, he glanced behind him in a nervous way.

“Things are very bad,” he said then.

“In what way?”

He sucked hard on his cigarrillo, scowling in a troubled fashion. At length he said:

“El Capitán will tell you, perhaps. I shall say this much: Sleep within walls while you are here.”

I squinted at him, wondering. I never had slept within walls at Atures, preferring to sling my hammock in an open hut at Otero’s place, with my Guahibos behind me; and, excepting a vampire which once had bled me, nothing had ever troubled me. Plainly some new danger now was abroad.

“Gracias,” said I. “I shall remember. By the way, I have a half-bottle of the Maracaibo which needs to be finished. Will you assist me?”

His sober face brightened, and he boarded the piragua with me in a hurry. It had been a long time since he had tasted anything better than caballo blanco, and the smooth old “little grandfather” was both honey and oil to his tongue. Only my own boys were aboard, and we two sat in the little cabin, out of the sight and hearing of all on shore. After a while, when he was grinning happily, I asked:

“Just what is wrong, here, amigo, that I should sleep in a hot house instead of in a cool hut? Are the bats or tigres bad at night, or is there something worse? Be sure I shall say nothing of what you tell me.”

His grin disappeared, and he looked quickly behind him again—as a man does on a dark night, when he feels that some fearful thing is at his back. It seemed to be a habit, recently acquired.

“It is worse than bat and cat together, Sixto,” he solemnly declared, when his eyes came back to mine. “It is—Por Dios, it is an ogro!”

For a minute I said nothing at all, but stared at him, wondering whether he had become a bit crazed. More than one Funes man had lost his reason.

“An ogro!” I exclaimed then. “A cannibal? An eater of men? Válgame, what do you mean?”

“I mean precisely that,” he retorted, not relishing my tone. “A fiend of some sort that carries off men and eats them! A thing that walks by night and devours men to the bare bones! Cra! Those bones!”

He shuddered and gulped another drink—the last in the bottle.

“You have seen the bones?” I quizzed.

“Sí, that I have—and I wish I had not! Dead men are nothing, Sixto—I have seen many, and made a few myself—but those gleaming white bones of my own men— Ugh!”.

He jumped up, face oozing cold sweat, and turned around on his heels as if to dislodge something at his back.

“Caramba! This is a weird tale, amigo!” I said. “It must be a tigre that does this—”

“When has a tigre had the feet of a man?” he disputed. “The feet of a giant man, with huge claws? And when has a tigre brought back the bones of its prey when it came for a new kill? And when has a tigre gnawed those bones so clean that not a shred of flesh remained—yes, and split the skull to devour the brains! Ajo! A tigre, like ——! A demonio! An ogro! A giant with the cunning of a serpent and the blood-thirst of a caribe!

“Listen! This fiend, I tell you, has come ten times in this month and taken a man each time! And not a man old or crippled, or a boy, from Atures town, but a sentry, a hard, alert man with rifle and machete, a man with meat enough to satisfy the appetite; and the last time—only two nights ago, at Salvajito—it carried off two soldados at once! And each time after the first it has left the bones of the man taken before, left them in plain sight. Twice it has come here, to this very spot, Zamuro, making its kill and leaving bones to mock us, and never a sound did it make, nor the victims either. Three times it has struck at Salvajito, and five times at Atures. From the very door of el capitán it has taken guards—from his very door, I say! Yes, and once it made a great daub of blood on that door, as much as to say it would soon take the chief himself! Cra, I wish it would snatch him tonight and—”

He stopped short, biting back the rest of it, and looking worried because he had said so much. And I sat staring at him without a word.

“Forget that I said that, I beg of you, Sixto,” he gulped. “I—I am not myself—”

“Have no fear,” said I. “You are as safe with me as with a padre of the church—perhaps more so. And I can understand how you fellows feel toward Atroz, even if you don’t say it. He is not very pleasant these days, eh?”

“He is el diablo himself!” he growled. “One would think, from the way he treats us, that it was our fault that this fiend walks among us. He is a fat fool! Ajo! What am I saying? But it is a truth that he does himself no good by such abuse. Men are deserting, and if matters continue so for another week or two—”

He stopped again.

“There may be no garrison here, eh?” I finished for him. “Has he sent for more men?”

“No. Not yet. He does not want el coronel to know the condition here.”

“Ah, so. He hopes to catch this ogro, no doubt.”

“Sí. But he does not come out at night to do the catching himself, we notice. He has put more men on duty at night and fewer by day—giving the ogro more men to choose from—and stays safely in his house.”

“Protecting his women, no doubt,” I grinned.

“Ah, sí, precisely. He killed one of them a few nights ago.”

“No! Truly? Which one?”

“One of the older ones. The name I do not know. He beat her head on a wall.”

“Humph!” says I. “By the way, what of the young Indio girl from the mountains—the one who had just come when I was last here?”

“That one is dead, too. She threw herself into the raudal, as some others have done, and so was drowned. It was only a few days after you had gone.”

That made me swear a bit. Somehow that girl’s eyes had haunted me at times while I was down the river, and more than once I had told myself I would try to get her clear of Atroz when I came back; buy her with a case or two of rum, perhaps, and turn her loose. I didn’t want her for myself, and just why I felt like helping her, and not the others, I can’t say; I just did. But she had found her own way out of it—and not the way I had rather expected. Atroz still was alive and atrocious.

The sargento grinned again as he listened to my remarks. They made him feel more at ease about the things he himself had said of Atroz. When I had finished he chuckled:

“I am grieved to hear you speak such impolite sentiments about my commander, Sixto, and perhaps I should report them. But instead I shall forget them. Now I go ashore. Remember to sleep within walls tonight.”

“Wait,” I objected. “Tell me more of that ogro. You say its feet have claws? Have its tracks been traced? Where does it go?”

“Only the devil knows,” he said. “The tracks are found near the bones, and near the places where men disappeared, but they can never be followed far. They vanish as if the fiend had taken wing. The claws are as I have told you, but they are not those of a tigre—the feet are those of a giant—”

Just then some soldado ashore bawled loudly for him, and he jerked as if kicked. Then, growling, he climbed out. From the deck he gave that soldado the fanciest cursing I had heard in some time, damning him through seventeen different hells, and his father and mother with him. It was plain that his nerves were worn ragged.

I sat there a while alone, puzzling about this frightful creature that had come to prowl about Atures by night. The tale of the sargento was undoubtedly true—that is, he had told the truth as he knew it; and he himself had seen the bones he told of—bones picked so clean that even the brains were gone. Decidedly, such work could not be that of beasts or birds. A big tigre or two might possibly have killed those men, but it was very improbable—especially when there were corralled cattle to attack instead. Bones could be stripped by vultures, but not so thoroughly as these had been. And the splitting of the skulls, the huge demoniac footmarks, the menacing splash of blood on the door of Atroz—those things could have been done only by something in human form. The most logical explanation I could imagine was that some insane giant of a man was lurking somewhere around the region and raiding the post in the night hours. And if that was true, and if this giant was a cannibal, as everything indicated—why, then it was just as the sargento said; he was an ogre.

So I simply thought around in a circle and came back to where I had started. Then I got up, kicking myself for wasting time on useless puzzlings, and set my crew to putting ashore my cargo of Guahibo trade goods. My job was to move my stuff overland, not to tie my head in a knot over matters that didn’t concern Sixto Scott.

AS USUAL, it was late in the day when I reached Atures. While I was on the road with the carts I noticed that the drovers were nervous—yes, even the bullocks were jumpy, though probably it was just the continual goading of the men that made them so. At the Catañapo ferry the crossing was made at double time. It was twilight then, and the workmen kept looking over their shoulders. They made the rest of the distance to the pueblo almost at a run, instead of at their usual sluggish gait. But in all the trip never a word was said about their reasons for haste, and I kept my own mouth shut.

When old Otero came out to greet me he said nothing of the ogre, either. What he did say was:

“I have made ready a room where you can sleep tonight, Sixto—indoors. There is a plague of bats just now.”

“O, very well,” said I. “Is there room also for my men?”

“Your Indios? But no, I do not shelter Indios. Let them sleep in the shed, or wherever they may. If anything happens to them, you have plenty of others.”

But I thought otherwise about that. Those boys of mine were entitled to my protection, both because I was their capitán and because they had no other defense. When we travel the Orinoco, you know, I make my men go unarmed, because I’ve found that they are less likely to get into trouble with the river people if they carry no weapons. Most folks along here are habitually hostile to armed Indians. So now it was up to me to stand by my crew.

“I think I prefer the outdoor air, Tolomeo. Bats are nothing new to me. I shall sleep in the usual place.”

And I cut off protests by going to that hut and having my chinchorro slung there. Otero came and stood looking much troubled, but held his tongue. Two of the Funes men were standing near, observing everything, and the old fellow was afraid to speak the truth. When they saw that I meant to sleep out they looked at each other as if well pleased; and I understood their thoughts as well as if they had told them to me.

“We are safe for tonight,” they were saying to themselves. “With this huge Scott and his Indios lying there like babes, the ogro can find a hearty meal without attacking us.”

When I met Atroz I could see that a very similar thought was in his mind.

Taking a couple of quarts of the Maracaibo—not a whole case, not even half—I strolled over through the darkness to his house, singing a ditty as I walked, so that no apprehensive night-guard would shoot me first and identify me afterward. There should have been a moon, but, as often happens up there, a heavy cloud-bank had rolled over from the mountains and blackened the sky. A lantern burned on the Atroz porch, and as I came near I was halted sharply by two sentinels stationed in the shadows on each side. Even when they had made sure of me they acted suspicious. It was the captain himself who gave me entrance. He appeared suddenly in the doorway, cursed both men, and invited me in. As he stepped back, though, I caught the gleam of a revolver in one fist. He was as nervous as they.

“Did you bring the rum?” he demanded, gruffly, as I stepped on the porch.

“Most certainly,” I returned, drawing the bottles from under my arm. “The real Maracaibo, as I promised you. I hope your thirst is in good condition, Capitán."

A curt grunt, without a smile, was his only answer. Even after we had opened a quart in his office and taken a good sample of the liquor he gave no sign of good cheer. True, his eyes shone as the smooth rum rolled down his throat, and he smacked his lips afterward; but a scowl stayed on his forehead, and his attempts at talk were short and jerky.

Sprawling in a chair, I smoked and talked about various things seen and heard along the river, taking a drink now and then, but making them scant—for I had no intention of dulling my senses that night with too much liquor. He listened, but in an absent way, as if half his mind were on something else. If he noticed that I was drinking very little he said nothing; that left all the more for him, and he did not neglect it. The good old Maracaibo seemed to have no particular effect on him, though. He did not relax enough to get the full benefit of it.

After a while I felt I had done enough entertaining, and asked a question or two, in an idle way.

“How goes everything here?” I inquired. “Has anything of interest come about since I passed down the river?”

“Bah! No!” he snapped, squinting at me cornerwise. “All is as dead as a cemetery.”

“Ah,” says I. “A monotonous spot, this, I have always thought. By the way, I hope all the little ladies are well.”

“Oh, yes.”

He took another drink. If he remembered the promise to make a big night of it on my return he gave no sign of it. I smoked another minute or two, and then yawned.

“I grow sleepy,” I said. “I lost siesta today, with the landing of my supplies. So I think I’ll go to my hammock.”

“Bien,” he answered. “You stay at the Otero rancho, as usual?”

“As usual. Out in the open hut, where it is cool.”

Something like a wicked smile showed for a second in his eyes. Then he glanced through the iron-barred window at the moonless dark.

“That is sensible,” he approved. “Well, then, a good rest to you.”

“Buen’ noche’,” I replied. And I left him.

As I walked back to the Otero place, singing as before, I observed that nowhere about the town was an open door, and that the only windows where lights showed were those protected by bars. Nobody was moving about in the darkness, either, unless it was some invisible soldado with finger on trigger and ears open to the rear; and I much doubted if even those hard hombres were walking post—they were probably standing against good solid walls. With the moon buried, it was a fine night for the ogre to prowl.

“For your good wishes, you beast of an Atroz, I thank you,” says I to myself. “And I trust that in spite of your walls and sentries the devil will fly off with you before daybreak.”

Then, to make sure that it was not Sixto Scott who vanished—for I am not altogether foolhardy, nor so simple as I may seem at times—I set sentries of my own, and better ones than Atroz had. On entering my hut I spoke quietly to my Guahibos, waking those who had gone to sleep; and when all were alert I told them:

“Muchachos, I have learned that a big bad tigre has come to this place and walks here by night; a silent tigre that never coughs, but prowls without a sound, and kills men. So we must keep watch until daylight comes. You shall take turns at this. Ciro shall watch first, squatting on the ground at this corner. When he is tired he shall wake another of you to take his turn, and so on through the night. If the man on watch hears or sees or smells anything not right, he must wake every one else at once, quietly but very quickly. If he does not, this devil-beast may snatch him away. Comprende?”

They comprehended very well—that is, as well as I wanted them to. If I had told them the thing was an ogro they would have believed it to be a demonio, and would have been scared witless and useless; for a demon is a terrible thing to your Indian, a fiend not to be escaped or resisted, while even the worst tigre or serpent or other living thing can be killed and so does not paralyze him with horror. So, after a bit of muttering among themselves, they took their task calmly enough. Ciro squatted with my machete in his hand and every sense alert—senses keener than those of any white man, for that sort of thing—and the rest of us went to sleep. I myself felt far more at ease, with those savages of mine on the job, than if I had been guarded by the whole Funes force.

What time it was when I awoke I don’t know, but it was a good bit later in the night. A fellow named Pepe was on watch, and I opened my eyes to find him shaking my arm. I sprang up at once, grabbing my rifle. In a couple of seconds he had roused the others by quick shoves, and we all were on our feet. Around us it was very dark.

“What is it?” I asked, speaking low.

“Something out there,” grunted Pepe. “I do not know what.”

We all held breath, listening, peering about. No sound came.

“Is it near?” I muttered.

“No. It may be gone now. I heard a small sound. Two sounds. Like this.” He made a low, gasping grunt. “On the wind,” he added. “Very faint.”

We listened again. A cool wind was blowing from the north, and had brought the sounds some distance. We heard nothing more. But then one of my boys sniffed.

“Something dead,” he mumbled. “I smell it.”

The others took long, slow breaths. Then two of them grunted in the way that means: “It is true.”

I tried, but I could not smell anything unusual. After a time I said:

“Bien. A dead thing can do no harm. When day comes we shall see.”

Another man took the watch, and the rest of us lay down. None of us slept for a time, and the Indians muttered a bit to one another, but nothing more developed. Finally I dozed off.

Once more a hand shook me. As I sat up I found day dawning. The light was weak, and only the first of the birds had begun to make their noises, but the night was gone. As I sat up my Guahibo said:

“Men move. Watch.”

Out on the road, half a dozen soldados were marching north, moving with quick steps and peering ahead. As I looked at them the Indian added:

“One shouted. None answered. They go to see.”

A corporal of the night-guard, probably, had yelled for an “All’s well!” and failed to get it. I had not known that a sentinel was posted to the north, but I could guess it now—and more too. Shoving my feet into my alpargatas and buckling my belt, I swung out and after the Funes men.

They did not notice me, nor did I notice that my Guahibos all had gotten up and followed me. The two parties of us walked along the road, saying nothing, until we reached the end of the short village. There the men ahead of us stopped short, all at once.

“Dios mio!” yelled one. “Both of them! And the bones—”

“Cristo!” howled another. “Is there no end to it? Por Dios, I will leave this cursed place! I will—”

“Silencio!” bawled a third—the corporal. “Shut your mouth!”

By that time I was among them. And I, too, halted short. There in the middle of the road was a bunch of bones—bones of men.

Two skulls, both split wide open at the crown; stark ribs, long arm and leg bones, and a few smaller ones—not all the bones of two men, but all the larger ones—they lay there in a huddle as if contemptuously dumped from some passing cart. They were clean white, without a spot of flesh anywhere; without even an odor, so far as I could perceive. The wind had changed, though, and now was blowing away from me. And I knew that these dead things were what the keen nostrils of my Guahibos had scented in the night.

After one look at them, the corporal scowled along the road and muttered something, then turned sharp about and walked to a big stone a few feet away. The rest of the men stood dumb, looking sick with fear. Now I saw that beyond those bones, in the thin dust of the road, were enormous tracks; human tracks, but ending in claw-prints instead of toe-marks. They led toward the Catañapo.

Another grumble from the corporal brought my attention back to him. Beside the big rock he had picked up a ragged straw sombrero. A yard or two away lay another. That was all that was left of the two outposts who had last been stationed at that stone to guard the northern approach to the pueblo.

The ogre had stolen up on those unlucky rascals who crouched there with loaded rifles, killed both of them without noise, and carried them off, taking also their guns and everything else except the hats. And as proof of what he would do to them—or perhaps as an insult to all their mates—he had left the bones of the sentries killed three nights before; yes, and had deliberately made his tracks in the road-dust. If I had not altogether believed in the diabolical creature before, I had to do it now. There was the whole story under my own eyes.

The corporal walked all around the stone, found no more signs, and came back, scowling at me. Saying nothing, I moved farther along, to look more closely at the tracks and measure them by my own. They went only a short distance along the road, leaving it at a bend; and from that point I could no longer follow them. Away from the cart-track the earth was baked hard as rock, and nothing showed. Even the claw-dents dis appeared.

The prints in the road were nearly twice as big as my own. Estimating the size of the ogre by comparing his tracks and mine, I figured that he must be more than twelve feet tall!

For a minute I felt as shivery as the goose-fleshed bandits at the bone-pile. But as I went back to them I kept my mouth shut. The corporal had not yet ordered them to pick up the bones, and I squatted there a few minutes to examine them. The skulls, I noted, were not split cleanly, as if by a steel blade, but broken in a ragged way. They looked as if crushed in by a rough, sharp stone.

While I was looking at them, a brown hand came down and began feeling along a leg bone, and I looked up to find that my Guahibos had gathered around. Then came a snarl from the corporal:

“Get away from there, you dogs! You, Scott, take your animals away from the bones of white men!”

“You go to —— you yellow rat!” I growled back at him, straightening up. “White men? —— mestizos like yourself! Shut up, or you’ll feel a real white man’s fist in your face!”

He did shut up, too, though he had a gun and I had left mine at the hut. For a second or two he looked as if ready to murder me, but he thought it best not to try it. My Guahibos, after watching both of us a second, handled the bones again, examining them very carefully. When they stood up they said nothing, but looked toward the Catañapo.

I said nothing to them, either, but shook my head at the Funes chaps, who now were watching them curiously. Ciro stepped along the road, grunting with amazement as he viewed the huge tracks, but following them along to the bend where they disappeared. There he stopped a minute, bent low, and then began moving slowly over that stony soil where I had seen nothing at all. In that way he traveled some little distance, stopping at another rock—a small black one. There he seemed to pick up something. When he came back, though, his hands were empty and his face blank.

“What do you find, Indio?” asked the corporal, who had become interested in spite of his sourness.

Ciro just gave an upward wave of the hand, which doesn’t mean anything. But the Funes bunch took it in another way.

“Cra, it is as usual—the demonio flew into the air!” exclaimed one.

“Por Dios, I know one man he will not fly off with,” muttered another.

“I too,” says a third. “Before night I will be somewhere else.”

“Enough of that!” scolded the corporal. “Gather these bones! We must report.”

With a nod to my own men I walked away, returning to the rancho. The Guahibos followed close. Back at our hut, I sat down and smoked, watching the Funes men plod past with the relics left by the ogre. They disappeared beyond the Otero house, heading for that of their capitán. As they went, the sun shot its first long rays across the town, and doors began to open.

“Ciro,” said I then, “what do you think of this tigre that walks like a man?”

Ciro gave me a queer look. Then, coming closer, he told me just what he thought of that infernal creature; and he didn’t call it a flying demon, or any other kind of demon. After that he reached inside his shirt—my boys always wear clothes when they come down river with me—and brought out something he had found beside that black rock. In about one minute, or less, I began to see light, or thought I did; a very dim one, but one that made me tell him:

“You go back to that place—now, at once, before others come—and look farther. Vaya!”

“Ump,” says he, meaning “All right.” Then he spoke one word to another chap and picked up my machete, and the two of them loped out into the sun, their eyes shining as if they were taking a hot trail.

They were gone some little time. My cook got breakfast, and old Otero came out, looking relieved when he found me safe and sound, and asking how soon I wished the carts to move. I told him there was no hurry, and added—

“The big bat took two more men last night, Tolomeo—the two at the north.”

“Cra!” He started and stared. “Two more! And you were not—”

There he caught his tongue.

“No, I was not disturbed in any way. But I have seen his tracks, viejito, and I know what has been going on here. Now tell me, has this ogro taken any one but Funes men? Has any peaceable person of the pueblo been attacked?”

“No, Sixto, not yet,” says he, glancing about to make sure nobody overheard. “It is only these bandidos who have been killed, thus far. Carlos Baltazar, now, one of my bullock drivers, he lay drunk in the road all one night and was unharmed, the very night of the killing of a guard at Salvajito. But do not tell this. Carlos fears he may be blamed in some way by Atroz if it is known that he was out that night. There would be no sense in accusing him, but Atroz is—he is muy atroz.”

“Right,” I agreed. “My mouth is shut. And perhaps you had best go in and not be seen talking to me just now. I shall inform you when the carts are wanted.”

At that he scuttled away. I ate, smoked again, and waited for Ciro to return. As I waited I rather expected to be summoned before Atroz for questioning or consultation; but no word came from him. Perhaps the corporal thought it better not to tell his chief that I knew anything of the night’s raid, or perhaps the capitán was too busy cursing and worrying to send for me yet. He had reason enough to worry, even if the ogre never captured him. Between killings and desertions his garrison was shrinking all the time, and before many days Coronel Funes must learn of it; and as soon as he knew Atroz had met a situation that he couldn’t handle, Atroz would be a dead dog, officially if not literally.

When Ciro and his companion came back they looked as stolid as usual, but their eyes still were shining. And said Ciro:

“The man tigre went up the little black river.”

“Along the bank?” I asked.

“No. On the water.”

“Ah,” said I. And I looked at the sun and at my pile of trade goods. Then I walked to Otero’s door, called him, and asked—

“The canoes used for ferrying at the Catañapo are yours, yes?”

“Sí.”

“Well, I am minded to go fishing this morning,” says I. “Let your peónes put my goods into your spare room, and give me paddles, and I shall pick your best canoe at the crossing. If Atroz happens to send for me, say that I shall return later.”

He gave me a curious look, but did as I requested. About a quarter-hour later my boys were paddling me up the little black river where the ogre had traveled in the night.

NOW that Rio Catañapo you know, is practically unknown, except for the few miles near Atures. It comes down out of the mountains where nobody lives but Indians—the Piaroas, mostly, though there are other tribes in there too—and beyond the short savanna it’s very rough. There are some queer things up in those hills, and in the savanna too, for that matter. Right out in the open, about a league back from the road to Salvajito, is the Cerro Pintado—the Painted Hill—a huge rock inscribed with picture writing put there by nobody knows who; and somewhere near-by is a great cave-tomb full of bones; and there are other odd things, pretty weird in a way, known to some folks, and plenty more unknown to anybody.

Well, I had no intention of going very far, and no real expectation of trailing the ogre to his den, or even of finding any more sign of him; for a water trail is no trail at all. But I was decidedly curious, and a day spent poking around up there might be interesting. So the boys paddled slowly along, watching everything keenly as we moved, while I sat looking at the water ahead—the only thing I could look at, except the bush along the banks, too thick to see through. Once in a while a bird flew up or a butterfly floated past, and now and then the Guahibos spied a snake, but nothing else showed.

We kept on in this way for quite a long time, still seeing nothing worth while. The narrow river was slow, deep and smooth, except for big stones here and there. Finally it began to grow rougher, with a tiny rapid at times. Then, about midday, we came to the mouth of a caño flowing in from the north side. Just above it, in the main stream, was a mean raudal. The caño, on the other hand, looked smooth, and trees interlacing over it made cool shadow.

“We have gone far enough,” I decided. “Paddle in there, and we shall eat and rest and then go back.”

They paddled up the new stream a few rods. Then a little space clear of bush invited us ashore, and we landed. The boys, as usual, looked at everything around; but all was peaceful. So, after stretching ourselves, we squatted and went to eating some cassava and carne seca.

The Indians were a little glum over failing to find any trace of the man tigre, and ate in silence. After a little while, though, one of them glanced around and listened. Somewhere at a distance a parrot was squawking, but there was no other sound. I kept on chewing. But then another chap turned his head and peered into the bush. After a minute he said softly—

“Something watches.”

We all stopped eating then, and as we squatted there I began to feel it too—that feeling of eyes watching me somewhere. If you’ve ever felt it you know how it is; if not, I can’t tell you; it’s a queer feeling, and not so comfortable. We kept dead still, but not a thing could we see or hear except the bush and the rustle of a little breeze.

“Well, let us see,” said I, rising. “Spread out, and we shall go into the bush a little way. Pepe, stay here and watch across the water. The rest of you, come.”

For a second or two the three who were to go with me hung back—they were unarmed, as I’ve said. But when I pushed into the bush with my gun ready they advanced with no more hesitation. It was quite thick and shadowy in there, and, although we were only a few feet apart, we lost sight of each other after a few steps. And it was a long time before I saw those fellows again.

I had just passed a big ceiba tree, with buttress roots forming open-ended rooms large enough to hold a dozen men, when something hit me. The world exploded and I was nowhere.

When things came together again I was moving through the air. Flat on my back, I was, with hands and feet bound and a cloth tied over my face. Some sort of stretcher or litter was under me, and leaves were rustling around me and brushing against my hair, and men were breathing hard from the strain of carrying my weight. My head ached miserably, and between the pain and the unusual sensation of riding jerkily on my back I felt sick. I began to struggle, trying to sit up or fall off, but found myself lashed to the litter. Then a voice growled, speaking words which I couldn’t understand, but which brought action. A fierce blow on my head knocked me out again.

The next thing I felt was a drowning sensation. I choked, fought about, and found air coming to me. Then I was lying on the ground, on my side, and could see the bare legs of a number of Indians. My head and face were wet, my hands and feet still tied. Somehow I shoved myself up on an elbow, coughing, and got a good look around. A man stepped back from me, holding a huge water-gourd, now empty. It was that water, dumped on my face, that had revived me and half drowned me at once.

For a minute or two I was dizzy and didn’t see very plainly. Then things steadied, and I blinked at about a dozen bare Indians I’d never seen before. A hard-faced bunch of hombres they were, too, watching me as if I were a snake they in tended to kill. I had just about time to size them up before a voice spoke, sudden and sharp, at my back. It was a surprized, angry voice, rather shrill, spitting out a mouthful of that language that was new to me. The men all looked blank. I tried to turn my head far enough to see who spoke, lost my balance, and fell over on my back. And then I lay there without a move, too much astonished to try to rise again.

Standing over me was a woman; a young, light-skinned woman, wearing nothing but a tiny guayuco—bead apron. And she was the mountain girl who had been caught by Atroz two months ago and had drowned herself in the great raudal!

Yes, sir, that same girl whose eyes had followed me out of the Atroz house and down the Orinoco; the one I had meant to help if I could; this was she. And, for a girl who had been killed in the raving waters of the raudal and eaten by the crocodiles always waiting below, she was remarkably well preserved. Her eyes were snapping with temper, and the string of language she threw at the men was red-hot. The next second she dropped to a squat, gave me a push, and, as I rolled on my side, began yanking at the bush-rope binding my arms. Then a man came with a knife and cut it; cut the bonds on my legs, too, and gave me a hand to help me up.

Things whirled around me again, but once on my feet I stayed there, hearing the girl scold my rough captors while I grew steady. They were a crestfallen bunch when I looked at them again. One of them began mumbling what seemed some sort of excuse, but she cut him short. With one finger she tapped my face, and with the other hand she pointed at one of the men who was a good bit darker than the rest, talking furiously all the time. They all looked at that fellow, but at his skin rather than his face. And then she spoke a word that meant something to me.

“Atro,” was the word, as she pronounced it. But I guessed that she meant “Atroz”; that she was telling them the skin of Atroz was as dark as that of the chap she had designated; and that she was lacing them for taking me for Atroz. By the same token I could perceive that the courteous capitán of Atures was wanted by this lady; and, knowing something of what he had done to her man, and to her also, I could easily understand why.

She stopped talking, and a glum silence followed. Then one of the men asked something, thrusting his chin toward me. She frowned at me as if perplexed, perhaps wondering what to do with me now that she had me. But then a swift smile flashed over her face, and she gave an answer. Several of them grinned. With no more words, they all went out.

She and I stood looking at each other, and she smiled again, more slowly this time. And in spite of my headache I woke up to the fact that she was actually handsome. Down in Atures, with a shapeless old dress on her body and sullen hate on her face, she hadn’t been very attractive. But now, with her shapely figure unconcealed and eyes and lips both laughing— Well, I smiled right back at her.

“I am glad to meet you again, chiquita,” I remarked, “but much surprized. Men said you were dead.”

Her smile faded and she looked uncomprehending. Evidently she knew very little Spanish. So I used signs. Pointing to her, I dropped my jaw, drooped limply, and looked dead. She caught my meaning at once, and answered in the same way. Jerking her hands about to imitate the writhing water of the big raudal, she took a few steps; stopped, pulled off an imaginary dress, and dropped it; crouched, stepped ahead very carefully, then turned sharp to the right and worked along in the same posture, swaying as if nearly losing balance; turned right again, looked and listened, and then ran a yard or two on her toes. A long wave of the hand finished the story, which was plain enough: She had faked a suicide at the raudal, leaving her dress behind and creeping down stream just off shore, until she could emerge and escape up the Catañapo, leaving no trail.

Then her expression turned a bit suspicious. Another long wave, and then, pointing at me, she asked: “Porqué?” Meaning, of course, why had I come there? Or rather, why had I come up the Catañapo?

Before answering that, I tried to learn how many Spanish words she had picked up, besides “porqué," while a prisoner; also, whether she could understand Guahibo, which I speak fairly well. The Indian words, I found, were reasonably intelligible to her, though not the same as those of her own tribe. Between the two languages, and the use of signs when words failed, we soon found that we could communicate quite readily. So then I explained why I had traveled up the little river.

First I made it quite plain, by saying “Atroz” and holding my nose, that I was no great friend of that gentleman. She seemed aware of that already, but I wanted it clearly understood. Then, with some difficulty, I told her that my Guahibos had trailed the giant raider of Atures to the Catañapo, and that I had followed from curiosity; that finally I had tired of the journey, gone ashore to eat before returning, and suddenly been attacked. She watched me closely, but seemed to believe my story. She asked, though, whether any other men followed me. I said no, and asked in turn what had become of my Guahibos. She smiled in an odd way and made no answer.

Looking around the place, I found no sign of my boys, nor much else. It was a small cave, dry and bare, well lighted by sunshine at an entrance a few paces away, but disappearing into a narrow dark corridor at the rear. After looking at me a minute or two without speaking again, the girl moved to that dark opening and faded away into it, leaving me to myself. I waited a little while, but she didn’t come back. So I walked out into the sun to see what I might.

Outside was a cleared space—that is, clear of bush—with several plantain-leafed huts among the trees, and a few men lolling in hammocks. The place had the look of an Indian fishing-camp; a temporary settlement, not altogether new but not old, which could be deserted at any time. A couple of rods away, water gleamed in the sun; and somewhere far off at the right sounded the dull rumble of a small rapid or cataract. It was about as lazy and peaceful a scene as you could imagine. The hard gang that had brought me there had disappeared somewhere, and the loafers in the hammocks seemed to pay no attention to me when I came out. It looked as if I could do as I pleased. But looks are sometimes deceptive.

I walked down to the water, wondering if it was the caño on which I had been captured. It wasn’t. It was just a wide pool in a little cañito—too wide to be natural, as I soon saw. At its lower end was a dam, made of sticks set close together, and, probably, of stones and mud below. It didn’t interest me, and after a look at it and around it I walked back.

“Well, that’s one way out, if I need to use it,” says I to myself. “Water always runs down hill, and that brook must lead to the caño and so to the Catañapo.”

Later on, though, I learned that I was wrong about that.

The lazy Indians all had sat up now and were watching me. Most of them lay down again, though, as I left the water. One chap continued to sit, keeping his eyes on me all the time. I went over to him and tried to talk, but met with no luck. The only answer he gave was when I asked whether they were Piaroas, and that answer was a short grunt meaning “No.”

Just who they were is still an unsolved question in my mind. Probably they were of some unknown tribe from the mountains to the north of the Catañapo; the Piaroa country is more to the south. They were all rather grim-looking, and not friendly, even though they let me alone; strongly built, and of the warrior age. Not an old man nor a boy was in the camp, nor a woman either, except that one who seemed to control them.

That woman now reappeared at the cave entrance, standing there slender and straight and looking wonderfully white against the darkness. I left the dumb Indians. As I approached, she motioned sidewise with her head and walked away to the left. I followed. A little way off, among the trees, we entered a palm house which I had not seen before, and which was better than any of the shelters of the men; for it was well thatched and walled with the branches of the chiquechique palm. Inside were various cook-pots and such stuff, and a hammock slung across. She sat down in this hammock and I with her; there was no other place to sit. And then we talked for some time.

Talked, yes, in that laborious way which was our best. But I didn’t learn much. In fact, I learned nothing at all about the things I most wanted to know; nothing about the giant, nothing about my Guahibos, nothing about my own probable future—except that I was not to go down the Catañapo for some time. She made this quite plain, and watched me with narrowed eyes to see how I took it. When I made it evident that I intended to go whenever I should feel so inclined, she just smiled oddly and said no more about it. She knew a way to hold me there.

About all I did learn was that her name was Matá—which, when I thought of it afterward, was very close, both in sound and meaning, to our Spanish verb matar, meaning “kill”; that the men in the camp took orders from her because she had been the wife of their young chief; and that she liked me pretty well. She didn’t put that last into words, of course, but it wasn’t necessary.

After a while she discovered the condition of my head, which I hadn’t mentioned, but which was hurting me a good deal, both inside and out. At once she went outside, to come back presently with a handful of crushed leaves and some tiny vines; and, using the vines as strings, she tied the leaves in a pad on my gashed scalp, and then motioned for me to lie down and keep still. When I did so she left me again. Soon the pain began to grow easier, and I became drowsy in the hot stillness and fell asleep.

My siesta lasted until nearly sundown, when I sat up feeling much better. Matá had come in again, hung another hammock, and lain down, but she was not asleep; just lying there and watching me in a dreamy sort of way. Now she arose and uncovered a wide basketwork tray, and there was a good meal all ready for me; sweet bird-meat, cassava, and mangoes, along with a gourd bottle of cool, tart liquid that seemed to be water flavored with fruit juices. I ate like a starved dog, while she nibbled at one of the mangoes—the only thing she would take from the tray. While I was eating I determined that afterward I would make her tell me what I wanted to know, if it could be done. But when that time came it couldn’t be done. That meal was my downfall.

What she had put into my food I don’t know, but I can make a guess. There is some sort of jungle drug, known to some of the Indians, which robs a man of his initiative. It doesn’t impair his physical strength to any extent, but dulls his mind and practically paralyzes his will. As long as he is kept under its influence he’ll do almost anything he’s told to do. Its effect probably varies with the strength of the dose; if it’s very strong he is practically an idiot until its hold weakens, and if he should be kept that way too long he might remain in that condition permanently. Also, if it’s strong enough, he can’t remember afterward what he did, or where he was, or anything else about his period of mental slavery.

Well, it was that drug, or something of the same sort, that Matá put into that first meal of mine and kept feeding to me afterward. I’m convinced of it, partly because of the knowledge of medicine she showed in healing my head, and partly because there’s no other explanation for my condition thereafter. She didn’t make the doses strong enough to turn me into a witless fool, perhaps because she wanted me to remain a man instead of to become a beast; but she gave me enough to hold me a prisoner as securely as if I were chained in a dungeon. Maybe her intention was to keep me that way until she and her gang moved back into the mountains, taking me with them, to some place so difficult of exit that I’d never find my way out again.

Anyway, as I’ve said, she didn’t make my medicine strong enough to blot out all memory or reason. Quite a bit of what took place after that stuck in my mind.

For the time I was in a sort of semi-stupor. It came on me very soon after that meal and remained through nights and days after that. I understood things pretty well, but I couldn’t think long about anything. A weight was on my brain, and when I tried to think, it would struggle a minute and then quit, leaving me staring and feeling lost. Even the occurrences that made a sharp impression for a few minutes grew vague very soon, and if I tried to establish the connection between one thing and another it was a useless effort. I just took things as they came and let them go, and most of them were pleasant enough. Matá made them so. I did whatever she desired me to; I couldn’t do otherwise, and maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to, anyway.

After that first night I was allowed to do whatever I pleased, with one or two exceptions. I couldn’t ramble away very far—I had no desire to, anyway—and I couldn’t bathe in the large pool. There was always a man or two near me when I walked about, and if I went too far out into the woods they would turn me about and swing me back. As for the bathing, they saw to it that I did this at a little hole some distance upstream from the pond. They took their own baths at the same spot. Nobody ever entered that dammed place nearest the huts. Nobody told me why, but it was clearly forbidden.

About the second day I wandered into the cave where Matá had found me. The dark passage at the back attracted me, and I felt my way along it. After some distance it grew brighter and suddenly let me out in a queer place; a cavity without a roof, rock-walled, into which the sun streamed hot. In the middle of this hole was a pole table, such as Indians use for broiling tapir meat, and on it lay bones. They were human bones; the larger bones of two men, the skulls split, the others absolutely bare of flesh; all dried, or drying, in the direct heat of the overhead sun. The sight jolted me a minute. My brain woke up and told me these were the bones of the two fellows carried off by the ogre that night while I slept in Atures.

Before my head grew dull again I spied a small alcove in the stone wall beyond, and, in that niche, a row of rifles. Stepping over to these, I grabbed them in turn and worked the action, finding all empty. There might have been a dozen of them, more or less, all of the type used by the Funes army. Lying below them were several revolvers. These, too, were empty. Not a cartridge was in the place, so not a gun was useful. No poniards or machetes were there, either. Afterward I saw some among the Indian huts outside.

On turning away from the gun-closet I found an Indian standing at the cavern entrance, watching me with a sarcastic smile. Probably I grinned back and went out with him, but I don’t remember; my mind must have gone back to its doze about that time.

It may have been that night, or the next, when I woke in the palm house and heard voices calling and laughing fiercely outside. Thin moonlight was shining at the doorway. Matá was gone. My head felt quite clear; probably the time was near morning and the supper dose of drug had grown weak in me. Anyway, I remember this quite well. I got up and walked out, stopping outside the door. Just then came a loud splash, followed by another; then a wild yell of many voices—a savage, triumphant yell that stirred my hair. After that all was quiet. Dark figures moved among the trees and disappeared. I was still standing there, my mind groping for something and not quite grasping it, when from nowhere at all came Matá.

She was standing there beside me, watching me with eyes narrow and hard, before I realized that she had come. Her expression was unpleasant; almost hateful, as it had been when I first saw her in the house of Atroz. But, as then, her feeling was not against me. After regarding me a short time she smiled slightly, took my arm, and drew me into the house. I asked a question or two, but got no answer. Soon I was asleep again.

She must have made the doses somewhat stronger after that, for things were more foggy for a while. But I can remember being in the hidden bone-drying cavern several times, and finding new bones each time, in varying numbers. Once only one man’s skull was there; once there were three; at other times two. The number of rifles grew, too, but never a cartridge was in any of them. Whoever concealed the guns—Matá, probably—made sure that they were left unserviceable.

If there was any more yelling in the night, any more splashing, I did not hear it. I slept too soundly. And no twelve-foot giant ever moved among those men of Matá’s. Men came and went; sometimes they were few, sometimes quite numerous; but they were all of the same size and type, muscular, hard-eyed and hard-mouthed, grinning contemptuously at me, the hulking white man a head taller than any of them, yet the helpless slave to a woman’s fancy.

It may have been those sneering grins that cut through to my submerged reason—I can see them yet at times, and I swear every time—or it may have been a slip by Matá in doping me, or both of these together, that brought a little clear thought back to my head. Anyway, I woke up again in the night, after a dream of being tortured by those grinning Indians; and for a few minutes I felt more wide awake, more alive, than for some time past. In that time I realized something of my condition and caught a glimpse of the cause of it. And straightway I stamped on my brain a resolution that stayed with me.

“I will not eat!”

Just that. I was still pounding it into myself, I suppose, when I lost myself again. At any rate, it was still there at daybreak, when I got up. I was rather hazy then as to why I shouldn’t eat, but still determined not to. Neither did I drink—not the stuff Matá gave me. I walked out and up the cañito, and there I drank clear water, lots of it. And I stayed there nearly all day, eating nothing at all, and drinking all the water I could swallow. By night my mind was more active than it had been for at least a week.

Matá was none too well pleased, you may be sure. But there was nothing she could do about it. Early in the day I had sense enough to pretend that I was sick, so that my water-drinking and my refusal to eat were more or less plausible. She made up some sort of remedy for me, and no doubt it was a good one for stomach trouble; but I wouldn’t take it. She tried to coax me, and then to pull me, back to my hammock; but I wouldn’t go. Men came and looked at me and argued about me, and a couple of them became a bit rough and would have forced me to the house, but I heaved both of them into the cañito, where they were unmercifully laughed at by the rest. They were ready to kill me for that, but Matá ordered them away, and they went. After that I was left in peace, except for several more coaxings by the girl, which did her no good.

At sundown I had been twenty-four hours without food—or drugs—and had given my interior the best washing it ever had. And my head was fairly well cleaned, too, though not yet so clear as usual. When I returned to the palm house, though, I acted dull and listless. Matá had a tempting meal ready, and I was hungry enough to eat it all. But I made a face as if the sight of food sickened me, and lay down in the hammock with my back to it. She coaxed and teased, commanded and scolded, but with no luck. I groaned and pushed her away, and then lay like a log until she gave me up again.

That night was very quiet. For a time I slept, though not very soundly; I was too empty. Later on I lay awake for an hour or two, able to think without effort. Recalling most of the things that had recently come about, I put them together and solved most of the mystery—though not all of it—connected with the raiding of Atures.

Matá, escaping from Atroz with vindictive hatred in her heart, had made her way back to her people; brought a gang of men down here, established this camp, and begun a systematic war of revenge on the Funes garrison. Her people were bow-and-arrow Indians, too few and too poorly armed to make an open attack on the riflemen and massacre them; so they were carrying on stealthy night raids, killing a man here and a couple there, striking now at the outposts and now at the pueblo, and taking away their victims every time. Their real object was, of course, to get Atroz. To do this they were terrorizing his force and wearing it down, by death and desertion, to the point where it would no longer safeguard him. It was plain, too, that they—or, at any rate, Matá—wanted him alive, not dead. Otherwise I, mistaken for him, would have been killed at the caño instead of carried to camp. Whenever they did get him, something very unpleasant was in store for the man who had tortured their young chief to death and maltreated his woman. And they didn’t care how long it might take to capture him. Even if Funes reinforcements should come, they could kill the new men as easily as their predecessors. They were expert killers, those mountain Indians. No doubt they had spies posted in the woods near the pueblo, and when the giant and his company paddled down the Cantañapo at night they found the night’s program of attack all arranged.

But what about that giant, and the devouring of the dead men, and the returning of their remarkably clean bones? I could answer only the last part of that question. The bones were carried back to Atures as a part of the campaign of frightfulness. But the man-eating colossus was as mysterious as ever. Remembering the splashes in the night, I felt that he must live in that dammed pool which nobody entered. But that would be impossible, unless he were some monstrous creature half human and half reptilian. Besides, the fresh bones I had seen here had been in that open-topped cave, not at the pond.

Well, I would keep my mind as clear as possible and learn what I could. I knew I should have to eat something in the morning, though, to allay suspicion. But I saw a way to do that and still keep my wits.

So, when day came and another tempting meal was put before me, I gobbled it at top speed. Matá watched with evident satisfaction, and when I walked out immediately afterward she gave no more attention to me. I went straight into the woods, put a finger down my throat, and forced myself to throw up all I’d eaten. Then I walked over to the cañito and filled myself with water.

For a little while I felt rather sickish and dull, and drowsed at the foot of a tree. While I lounged there one of the Indians came up, looked at me, grinned, and went back. Probably Matá had given me a strong dose that morning, and he reported to her that I was drunk from it. At any rate, I was left unwatched after that, and when my sluggishness passed off—as it soon did—nobody saw me arise and go.

Luck guided me that morning. My main idea at the time was to find and eat some undoctored food. A man can go a long time without eating, of course, if he has plenty of water; but it’s not a comfortable experience. I figured that there must be some small storehouse for the cassava and such stuff, and that I’d better locate it. So I went into the bush, working up a steep slope and toward the rear of the camp. Then I found a faint footpath, and followed it. It led back for quite a distance through thick bush. Suddenly it ended at a cave-mouth—so suddenly that I was almost in the opening before I knew it. And just inside it squatted two Indians, who stared at me, then jumped up with quick grins. Both of them were my own Guahibos.

“Ajo!” I exclaimed. “Where have you—”

There they stopped me with hands upraised for silence. After looking quickly about them and listening for a few seconds, one of them cautioned:

“Speak quietly, Capitán. Men guard us.”

“Where are they?”

“One went to hunt. The other walked to the camp. Either may come back any time. They are bad.”

“How bad?”

“They killed Pepe. He tried to run away. We are slaves.”

I growled something to myself, then said to the nearest—

“You come out and watch while I talk to Noé.”

He came out a little way, and I stepped inside. Of Noé I asked, “Have you food?”

“Yes, Capitán. Are you hungry?”

“I starve. Bring something.”

He ran back inside, to return quickly with a half-eaten monkey haunch, which I began gnawing. Between bites I asked what they did there.

“We work at whatever they give us,” he said. “They take us to the caño when they go out to raid. They tie us up there and leave us, with one to watch us. When they come back they make us carry the dead men to the camp. It is hard work. They made us carry you, too, that day we were caught. Then they drove us up here. We thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” said I, gulping more meat. “You do not work about the camp, or you would have seen me.”

“No, we can not go there. Here we care for the big fool. He is filthy, and we must clean—”

“Big fool?” I cut in. “Who?”

“The man of big feet. You know.”

I came near choking myself then. A half-swallowed piece of monkey flesh stuck in my throat as I caught his meaning. The giant! The ogre! He was here!

I coughed up the meat, making considerable noise, though I tried to be quiet. Noé looked worried. When my voice came back I gasped—

“Here?”

Noé said nothing, looking out and listening. Before he decided to speak the giant answered for him.

Somewhere inside the place sounded a mumbling voice of somebody disturbed by my coughing. It approached, grunting and grumbling, more like the noises of an animal than the words of a human being. And then into the light came the strangest thing I ever saw in the shape of a man.

He was an Indian, and huge. But he was not twelve feet tall; no higher than I am, if as high. His size was in his width and thickness. Body, arms, and legs were as wide as those of any two men. And his bulk was not that of fat—that is, not fat alone, though he was big-bellied; it was that of enormously thick bones and a barrel chest overlaid by meat. And the most monstrous parts of him were his hands and feet. The hands, at the ends of overlong arms, hung below his knees, each big enough to close around the whole head of an average man, as yours or mine would close on a pipe-bowl. The feet—well, I’ve told you the size of their tracks: gigantic.

Aside from their tremendous size, though, they were usual human feet, with five toes and no claws. Looking at them, I remembered what my men had learned about them down at Atures. There the ogre had lost a set of his claws, and that was what Ciro had found at the black rock. They were sharp stones set into a notched stick, with cords to lash the stick to the tops of his toes; the stones fitted between his toes, and the stick held the toes off the ground, so that as he walked he gouged the soil but left no toe-marks. After making his demon tracks he could pull off the claw-sticks and walk as usual on hard soil, leaving traces so faint that only the eyes of a trailing Indian could ever discern them. And if he had not chanced to stumble over a rock in the darkness that night and drop claws where my Guahibo discovered them, we never should have followed him, for my boys would have believed him to be a sure-enough demonio. As it was, they scented trickery at once.

All this passed through my mind in almost no time, and then I looked again at his head. No, it wasn’t a huge, horrifying head, red-eyed and ferocious. Compared to the rest of him it was absurdly small; not much larger than that of a child. And its expression was even more incongruous. The beady little eyes looked peevish, yet placating, almost cringing, as they met my hard stare; and the vapid, drooping mouth moved uncertainly, making no noises now. What Nature had put into his overgrown body she had taken away from his brain. He wasn’t a downright idiot, but certainly not more than half-witted.

As I thought of the twelve-foot terror I had pictured I had to grin. At once the creature grinned back, grinned wide, chuckling in an infantile way. And I saw that his upper jaw held no teeth. That’s a common condition among our Indians, as you may have noticed. But to find this man-eating, bone-gnawing monstrosity minus the teeth to eat or gnaw with—that capped the climax. Poor beggar, he couldn’t bite off a mouthful of meat to save his life.

But, meat-eater or not, he was powerful—though he didn’t know his strength. While I grinned at him he stepped closer and gave me a playful tap on the chest. Only a tap, that’s all it was—to him. But it nearly knocked me down. If he should ever strike a man in earnest, that man would be dead on his feet. But I doubt if he ever did. I don’t believe he had killed a man of the Funes gang. He was just a poor tool used by Matá to simulate a demon by making tracks, and perhaps used by his companions as beast of burden to transport the dead men to the waiting canoe at the Catañapo. It would require a much keener intelligence than his to creep up on two armed sentries and kill them without even time for a shot or a yell.

Noé spoke sharply to him when I staggered, and he looked vacantly at my man, as if wondering what he’d done wrong. When Noé pointed to the gloom he turned obediently and faded away into his den, as docile as a child—more docile than most. And in spite of his uncouth proportions he moved without the slightest sound. Those great feet made no more impact on the ground than the fall of a feather.

When he was gone I said:

“Ajo! So that is the tigre that walks like a man! He is more like a tapir. But, Noé, what is it that eats the men brought here?”

“Caribes,” he answered.

“Caribes!”

“Yes, Capitán. The pond down yonder is full of them. Men throw in the dead. The fish eat. When the bones are clean they are raked out and dried.”

“Dios mio!” I marveled. “But how come caribes in that tiny cañito?”

“Men say they were brought from the river.“

So that ended the mystery of the ogre. That explained the stripping of the bones. Caribes, you know, go mad when they taste blood, and chop at meat until none is left; they would chop up the bones, too, if they could. True enough, as I had thought last night, the ogre did live in that pool; a hundred of him, probably. And that eating part of the ogre, like this walking part here in the cave, was born from the brain of Matá, beyond a doubt. She had caused that dam to be built; the fish to be trapped and brought there; the bodies to be devoured; the bones to be carried back, and all the rest of it—even to the splitting of the skulls, so that the brains of the Funes men might become fish-food! A savagely vindictive touch, that last. And an exceedingly dangerous young woman, Matá; a tigress.

And, though that tigress had been gentle with me until now and might continue so a while longer, the time might not be far off when she might tear out my throat. Tigresses are likely to turn on you sooner or later. In this case it probably would be sooner; as soon as she discovered that I was aware of her drugging practice and getting out of hand. I couldn’t deceive her long. And when she found that I meant to leave her—

It would be better all around, I felt, if she didn’t find it out until I had already left her. So far as she personally was concerned, I could break her neck with one hand if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. And I could hardly break through all her hard gang afterward. And now that I had satisfied my curiosity most thoroughly, it was expedient to go with no unnecessary delay.

“Where is Ciro?” I asked.

“He went with the hunter, to bring back the game,” explained Noé.

“Bien. We had better leave this place tonight. Tell Ciro when he comes. Can you three slip away from your guards when all sleep?”

He grinned, his eyes shining.

“Unless they are to raid tonight,” he agreed. “If we stay here—”

His finger moved in the way that means a cut throat. And he didn’t mean his own throat, you can bet.

“Bien,” said I again. “There is a palm house with walls. Find it. Step softly. I shall be awake. Then we all go. You know the road to the caño?”

“I know it well.”

“And at the caño are canoes?”

“Yes. And paddles.”

“Bueno! I know where guns are. Do you know where the bullets are kept?”

“No. Not here.”

“Well, perhaps I can find them. If I cannot, we go with no gun. We must go craftily. If we fail, we never go.”

“We go,” was all his reply.

I nodded and stepped out. Just then the other fellow sprang to us, hoarsely warning me:

“Go! Men come.”

He gestured for me to take the path by which I had come. Then he muttered to Noé, who jumped out at him. They grappled and thrashed about in the bush, pretending to fight, and making more than enough noise to drown any rustlings I made as I swung away. I was gone in no time, unseen and unheard.

Back I went to the tree beside the cañito, to sit again and think things over. My mind was clear enough now, and working fast. My next step must be to try to find cartridges, which probably were hidden in another of those little caves which seemed numerous thereabouts; then, if I found them, to sneak a rifle out of the arsenal and hide it where it could be quickly picked up. Although I intended to slip away that night without disturbance, a gun might prove very useful before we could reach Atures. In fact, I decided that even if no cartridges could be found I would still take a gun; my own, if I could find it. With this in mind I was just about to rise and go to camp when I heard a rustle of leaves. At once I assumed a dull expression and sat limp and sluggish.

Through the bush came Matá. I blinked up at her as vacantly as possible. Standing beside me, she returned my gaze smilingly, but with something of contempt in her face, too. No woman has much respect for a man altogether her slave, even if she still likes him; and it was plain enough to me that, although she was not yet tired of me, her interest was waning somewhat.

Just at present, though, she was in a rather playful mood, and proceeded to amuse herself with me. Sinking down beside me, she pushed me about, twisted my hair into horns, and in general treated me like a big doll, laughing at my foolish appearance and actions. When she tired of that she snuggled against me and chattered away about something or nothing—I don’t know what, for she used her own language, and seemed to enjoy hearing herself talk. Once in a while I said something, but always broke off and scowled as if forgetting what I meant to say, and she laughed merrily. For the time she seemed hardly more than a child playing a thoughtless game.

Meanwhile the forenoon was sliding away and I was accomplishing nothing. For a few minutes I considered the plan of suddenly turning tables on her, making her my captive, holding her as hostage and compelling her to go with me and my Guahibos, in full daylight, to the caño. But I knew it wouldn’t work. She would meet violence with violence, and her men would finish me pronto. So, giving up that idea, I began to wonder how I could plausibly avoid eating at midday. The answer to that problem came most unexpectedly.

Suddenly over at the camp out broke a riot of noise that made us both jump. Wild yells and roars and screams blended in a savage chorus of either fear or joy—I couldn’t tell which. For a second or two I thought the place had been found and attacked by Funes men. But there were no shots. Then Matá, listening, voiced a quick cry and leaped up. At top speed she dashed away, leaving me there like a forgotten toy.

I followed, though not so fast. Before I reached the huts the yelling had died to scattered calls and an excited rumble; and when I came among the Indians they had grown almost silent, only a grunt or two sounding here and there. They were crowded together now, bunched before the entrance to that cavern where I had been dumped on the dirt when brought here. All were looking intently inward, those behind standing on toes and stretching necks in useless effort to see what was within. The entrance was jammed, and outside men were packed in a solid mass. I stopped at the rear, looking over the intervening heads but unable to make out what took place in the dimness beyond.

Then, from in there, came the voice of Matá, high with fierce triumph, sneering, jeering, taunting in tones that could mean only one thing. Before I heard his name—as I speedily did—I knew who was now lying on that floor.

“Atro,” came her stinging voice; and again “Atro!” At last the Indians had caught Atroz.

Yes, they had caught him in broad daylight; caught him at a time when they least expected it. Later I heard that, just after sunrise that morning, he had walked a little way into a bit of forest behind the pueblo—just why, nobody knew; perhaps to try to think undisturbed. Since it was day, and the ogre walked only at night, he must have thought himself safe enough. Besides, he wore two revolvers and a poniard. But he never came out, and when soldados searched they found only a blood-stained stone lying near the spot where he had rested. No doubt the Indian spies had been lurking in those woods, and, seeing their chance, crept up and knocked him senseless with that stone.

So here he was, at last, captive of the woman whose mate he had tortured to death before her eyes, and on whom he had practised such cruelty as his atrocious name and reputation would indicate. And she was mocking him with the merciless malice of long-awaited revenge. Her words probably meant little to him, as to me, but her voice and face must have made him cringe. If he made any answer it was too weak to be heard outside. Probably he could not find his voice. This girl, he had supposed, was dead long since; and to find himself now in her power must have shocked him dumb.

Then her revilings stopped. A few short words followed. A buzz of excitement went among the listening Indians, and they pushed and stretched higher to see. From inside now came the voice of Atroz, groaning out words of frightful panic. Then a gasping, gargling yell, as if choking. A coughing, moaning noise. After that hoarse howls of agony—howl after howl that made me sweat cold. Then moans; long, shuddering moans.

Without seeing, I knew Matá was giving him a taste of his own medicine; making him feel some of the pain he had enjoyed so much when he inflicted it on others. Whatever she was doing to him was no worse than he had done to her own man; probably it was the very same thing. But it was unpleasant to me when I only heard it—more so when I saw it.

The herd of Indians pressed back and broke into two sections, leaving a way open from the cave. Two other Indians came out, hauling at a rope. At the end of the rope came Atroz, staggering, stumbling, with more men shoving him from behind. And a ghastly sight he was. Stark naked, roped around the neck, arms tied behind him—but that was nothing. His mouth was cut back to his ears. His jaw hung loose. He made hoarse, horrible sounds without sense, showing that his tongue was gone. Yes, that tongue which had ordered death or torment to man or woman and jeered at their agony—it was cut away. And Matá hadn’t stopped at his mouth, either.

Matá came after him, both hands red to the wrists. She still gripped a red knife. Her dark eyes, her gleaming teeth, were like those of a tigress at its kill. The little girl who had played with me just now was gone, and in her place walked a she-devil.

I felt sick, and turned to walk away. As I did so I bumped a huge shape at my left. It was that of the giant-footed freak, who now chuckled at me as he met my eye. Behind him were all three of my Guahibo boys. The uproar at the camp had brought down the slave-keepers, no doubt, and these fellows had followed. The capture of Atroz had broken all bonds and made a holiday for every one.

Why didn’t I interfere? Hombre, I’m no man’s fool. Atroz was as good as dead already, and the sooner the better for him and everybody else. If I interfered I’d be through, pronto, and serve me right. Some day I may get killed trying to defend somebody, but if I do it will be for a better man than Atroz. Until then I take care of Sixto Scott.

And I began looking out for this man Scott right then, for I saw my chance. Every eye was on the spectacle. One more look at the pitiless face of Matá, and I spoke low to Noé.

“We go now. None watches. Walk fast, but don’t run.”

He shot one glance around, nudged Ciro and the other, and walked away. To my surprize, he went in the direction of his cave, up-hill, not down along the cañito. But I followed. Moving fast, but not too fast, we dodged among trees until we were several rods away. Then Noé grunted—

“We go.”

With the boys ahead, I ran up the path to the caveman’s den; turned sharp past it, and followed another trace, climbing, always climbing. It was stiff work, and I had to grit my teeth to hold the pace. Just as my knees seemed giving out we found level ground, dropping sharply at one side. There we paused, all blown.

“Look,” panted Ciro, pointing. And, following his finger, I found that we could see almost straight down to the dammed pool, a good way below us now. And I saw more than that.

The Indians were doing something at the pool, throwing something at a bare tree-branch above it. Then they crowded at the edge and did something else. Soon a huge figure, recognizable even up here as that of the strong fool, began pulling. Out over the water swung another shape, to hang there squirming. Shading my eyes and peering hard, I made out what was taking place.

Atroz still was entertaining. Matá had stopped the slapping for a more ingenious game. Her men had thrown a rope over the limb, tied his hands and feet together, swung him out, and lowered him, face down, to a point just above the surface. Now that quiet water was boiling and splashing around him, and he was writhing in useless struggles. It was the last act in his black drama. The ogre had him at both ends of his rope now; and when the outer end of the rope sank into the water Atroz would be nothing but a name.

“Let’s go,” said I. And we went fast.

That was the crest of the hill, and after we crossed the top the rest of our road was all down-grade. It was not very long, either, though it seemed that we had run for hours when we reached the caño. Three canoes were there—one of them our own—and as soon as the paddles were found we dug out of there with all speed. And we stopped for nothing until we reached Atures.

The Indians must have pursued us, but we had so long a lead that they never sighted us. Nobody thought of us, of course, until Atroz had ceased to hold their interest. How Matá felt about our unceremonious exit I didn’t know, but I could guess. And that night I and all my men slept inside the walls of Tolomeo Otero.

I hardly think, though, that our recent hosts hunted us in Atures after dark. Probably they thought I would tell the soldados there the whole story and the riflemen would be ready for them—though hardly a corporal’s guard now was left in the pueblo. And the chances are that before sundown they had abandoned camp and started back toward their home somewhere in the unknown mountains. Their work was done, and, with me loose to tell the tale, common sense would urge them to vamose.

As a matter of fact, I didn’t tell all I knew, though I let out enough to make it clear that Atroz would never come back. Nobody mourned him, either—I least of all, when I learned that in my absence he had drunk up all my Maracaibo.

Everybody had thought I was dead, of course, and my return was a three days’ wonder. Otero, to whom I told more of the story than to anybody else, made a greater wonder of it. He either imagined a good deal or deliberately twisted what I said; and the yarn he handed out was to the effect that, after long trailing of the giant ogre, I had caught him eating Atroz, and killed him. People believed it, too, and I didn’t deny it. I was in haste to resume my journey home, and they could believe what they liked.

Otero is dead now, and the Funes army broken up and gone, but the story lives on, and sometimes somebody tells it to a newcomer at Atures. That’s why I thought you might have heard it. But the ogre really was just what I’ve told you—a poor freak of Nature, a pool of fish, and a vengeful woman. And sometimes now, when I’m making the Atures portage, I look up the Catañapo and wonder where Matá and her monster are and how life is treating them. She wasn’t such a bad sort, Matá. Aside from her trick of doping me, which is easily forgiven, she was very kind to me; and maybe, if I should hunt her up, she might be so again. But I never go up the Catañapo to find out. I wish her well—at a long distance.

1. True. See Camp-Fire.

“The Ogre," copyright, 1926, by Arthur O. Friel.