Читать книгу The Thirty Gang - Arthur O. Friel - Страница 4

Chapter 2

II

Table of Contents

"ADIOS MIO!" yelled Diego. "The gun has exploded! Loco León is hurt!"

He yelled it even as his master was falling; yelled it too quickly, showing that he had the words ready to shout as soon as his bullet tore through me. With the words he twitched his left hand to drop the black thread, now broken, by which he had pulled the trigger of his cocked gun when his master shoved me.

It was not a very new trick in San Fernando, but up to now it had always worked well. An "accidental" push against a loaded rifle—an "accidental" explosion—made an "accident" that was always loudly bemoaned by the fellow with the gun, but not by the victim. A .44 slug sent upward from under the ribs blows all moans out of a man.

But when Diego saw whom that bullet had caught, the other things he had ready to say stuck in his throat. Argel struggled over on one side before he died, and his wicked eyes glared up at Diego, who stood like a stone.

"—— roast you forever!" gasped Argel. Then he crumpled up and was quiet. Diego, still holding his thread, lifted his face in a dazed way and stared at me.

"A slight mistake, Diego," I said. "It is not Loco León who is hurt. But that is the fault of Argel, not yours. You had better find a patrón who is not so clumsy."

I was angry enough to kill him—a powder burn across the belly does not improve a man's temper—but I let him live. He was only a tool, and the real assassin—Argel—had paid in full. Later I laughed long over the joke of it, but just then I was not in a merry mood.

His hand went to his machete, but he did not draw. His rifle was on the floor, where it had dropped in the "accident," and he let it lie. I gave him a hard shove that sent him sprawling, and then started for the door. But before I reached it there was work to do.

Erasmo Argel, brother of the dead man, let out a squall like a maddened cat and jumped for me.

"My brother! León has killed my brother!" he screeched. His dagger was out, and he stabbed for my throat. Other men, too, snarled. I had to fight fast if I was to leave that place alive.

I dodged the knife and shot Erasmo in the stomach. And then, with revolver in one hand and poniard in the other, I shot and stabbed my way straight out of there. I did not pick my men—I had no friends there, and I attacked everybody in my way. The watchers at the door broke and scattered to get away from me. They had nothing in particular against me, and had come only to see what might take place, and now they were well pleased with the show. So, with gun empty but knife ready, I walked away without further trouble.

There was mad swearing back in the rum-shop, but the outsiders laughed and called after me:

"Well fought, León! The Coronel will make you a sargento primero in the army!"

And I heard one say:

"Por Dios, but, this Loco León is well named! When he fights he is a mad lion in truth!"

But, Mad Lion though I might be, I was a lone lion among a big pack of treacherous dogs, and I had no wish to stay there. Those who cheered me now might shoot me down in the next ten minutes; Funes might laugh over the end of the Argel brothers, or he might have me tied to a tree and beheaded. I decided to make a complaint to Funes himself before others could complain of me, and then to get away as quickly as possible. So, reloading as I went, I swiftly crossed the plaza to Funes' headquarters.

It had grown dark now, and I was halted sharply at Funes' door and held there until a lantern was put to my face. The guard had been changed at sundown, and it happened to be under command of Amalio Lopez, who was by far the best man in Funes' whole force: a brave, sensible fellow, who, when Funes finally was captured and executed in 1921 by the army of Cedeño, died fighting to the last for his chief. He was the one man in the place worthy of any respect.

"Ah, it is Loco León," he said. "You can not see the Coronel now, Loco. He orders that nobody disturb him before morning, as he entertains two women. What was the shooting over there?"

"It was my shooting," I answered boldly. "See, my shirt is shot away by that hound of an Otón Argel. He tried the rifle accident on me. Erasmo tried stabbing me. Both are dead, and others also. Now I want to know if this was done by the order of the Coronel. If he wants my life why does he not take it in the usual way?"

"Whenever he wants it he will take it in that way," Amalio answered grimly. "He gave the Argels no instructions. They are dead? I am glad of it. But this may be serious for you, Loco. The chief had use for them."

"He has use for me also," I snapped back. "I pay him a larger balata tax than any other man in this Rio Negro country. What is more, it was only a little while ago that I amused him much, and that is worth more than money. And if those dogs would try killing me without authority, would they not do other things against authority? Might they not even try to murder the chief himself? Who knows?"

"That is so," Amalio slowly agreed. The one thought always in the mind of Funes and his men was that some one would try to kill him. "Well, you will see him tomorrow. Then he will do as he sees fit. Now, go!"

I intended to go farther than he meant me to, for I suspected that Funes might be ugly-tempered in the morning; but I gave no sign of my intentions. I only said:

"Bueno. But give me my rifle, which I left here. I may need it before sunrise."

He grinned a little and ordered that my gun be brought. By this time other men had gathered, but none came too near. When my rifle was in my hands I said to those watching:

"I go walking, and I sleep alone. Let none of you try to follow. Amalio, thank you, and buen' noche'."

"Buen' noche'," he yawned. And I walked away into the dark, and none followed.

I walked southward, as if heading for the house where I usually slept when in the town. But at the first dark corner I slipped around and loped down toward the river Atabapo, where my loaded curial lay.

Whether my crew of mestizos, who usually paddled me as far as my first sitio on the Ventuari, was at the canoe now I did not know, though I had ordered that two men sleep there in order to prevent thievery from my supplies. But luck was with me—they all were there, gambling on a box-top and laughing or cursing as the tumbling dice gave them suertes or azares. My movements since the fight had been so rapid that nobody had yet come down to tell them about it.

"We have now," I said, jumping among them before they realized that I was arriving. "Out into the river! Move!"

They gaped a second or two. One spoke.

"Leave now? Tonight? In darkness?"

"We leave now!" I growled. "There is trouble. Unless we jump out of here there will be more. Vamos!"

They jumped. Sudden trouble was nothing new to them—they were San Fernando men themselves, of the peon class—and they knew the value of acting first and thinking afterward. In less than a minute we were aboard and had shoved away, and I had blown out the lantern.

"Straight out," I ordered. "Then downstream."

Their paddles thumped for a couple of minutes on the gunwales before any call came from behind. Then sounded a yell.

"Loco León! You dog, you pig, you ——! Come here and fight!"

Lanterns were swinging down the sloping shore toward the spot where the canoe had lain. Somebody had seen me dodge around that corner, and now the dog-pack was beginning to yelp. I cocked my gun and stood up, intending to teach them manners. But then, realizing that my gun-flash would give them a target, I held my fire. With only the dull thump of the receding paddles to shoot at, they were hardly likely to do me any harm; and I had spilled enough blood there for one night.

Getting no answer, they yelped all the more boldly. Half a dozen rifles blazed at me, but the bullets flew wild. My men, without orders, began silencing their strokes. With hardly a sound, we slid on toward the midstream island, the current carrying us downward all the time. Then from the shore sounded a voice speaking loudly to the other men.

"Save your bullets, save your bullets! Let the fool go. Do you not know that Paco Peldóm waits for him at the boca del Ventuari? The gang of Paco will not fail."

A rumble of other voices followed, and the lanterns began to move back toward the streets. Then I answered them in a way that I knew would madden them more than bullets or curses. I laughed; laughed loud and high, as if I found them only amusing and contemptible.

They bawled curses, of course, but I gave none in return. We now were far enough out to avoid the rocky point below the town, and I gave the word to head straight down the river. I was out of San Fernando, and I had no time to think further of what lay behind. I was already figuring on what waited ahead.

As San Fernando lies on a point, with the river Atabapo in front and the Orinoco behind, these enemies of mine might cut across to get me when I passed up the Orinoco. I thought this improbable, however, for it meant half a mile of walking through the night, and they were much more likely to go back to the rum-shop—especially since they knew that Paco Peldóm was waiting for me. It was Paco and his gang, lurking at the mouth of my own river, that gave me some real thinking to do. The drunken fool who blurted that out had done me an unintended favor.

The plot was bigger than I had supposed. This Paco was no balata merchant, like the brothers Argel and others who hated me for business reasons. He was a killer, and head of a small but deadly band of men outlawed from Venezuela, Colombia, and Brazil; one of Funes' tools, and so inhuman that he was nicknamed El Carnicero—the Butcher.

There were many such brutes in the "army" of Funes; for birds of a feather flock together, and Funes, himself a murderous outlaw, drew around him the worst men in three countries. They took orders, of course, from the master cut-throat himself; but they also operated on their own accounts, killing and robbing for loot, for lust, or for pay. During the eight years of terror in the up-Orinoco country, many a hideous crime was committed which Tomás Funes never intended. And if any of his men was worse than this Paco Peldóm, I have not heard of that man.

Now, since I carry little money up the river with me—I leave almost all of it in bank here at Bolívar—Paco could expect no plunder from my boat except my Indian trade-goods, which would hardly tempt him. There had been no trouble between us, so he was not seeking revenge. Funes had shown no desire to kill me yet. The only good reason I could see, then, for this gang to want my life was for pay. And the only people likely to pay them much for their trouble were my business enemies.

So I concluded that those enemies had sent Paco up to the Ventuari to take care of me when I should arrive there, and that the Argel "accident" had come about because Otón was not satisfied to let well enough alone; if I was killed in San Fernando he would not have to pay Paco for my head.

With me dead, perhaps the plan was to seize my balata country in force and compel my Maquiritare friends to work it, or bring in other, weaker Indians, as slaves. With me alive, there was not much chance for those schemers to get anything on the Ventuari except bullets and arrows.

All this I thought over while we slid down the Atabapo and swung around the point into the Orinoco. And then, making a map of the Ventuari and the Orinoco in my mind, I began to laugh.

"Paco," I said to the night, "you and your wolves never fail, no? Well, we shall see."