This story is perhaps the rarest acquisition of this year. It is a fictional work based in Guyana,
British Guiana formerly. The story was
published in Britain,
and never seems to have been available in a North American publication. Verrill
was in British Guiana researching the Indian tribes; that work was for the Museum of the
American Indian./drf
Kenaima
By
A. H. Verrill
From Hutchinson's Adventure Story Magazine, November 1922;
provided kindly by Mike Ashley. Digitized by Doug Frizzle, July 2012.
A stirring story of a native vendetta
through the little known country on the upper waters of the
Amazon.
DAN HAZEN stepped from
the palm-roofed shelter and lazily
stretched himself. Back of the hut, the vast, unknown Guiana bush swept unbroken to the upper waters of the
Amazon and Orinoco. Before him swirled the brown waters of the
Coyoni, and to one side a tranquil creek cut its serpentine way between high
gravel banks into the jungle. From where Dan stood he could see the rude dam, the
sluices and the sieve-hoppers, which
daily, and with much back-breaking toil on his part, were adding their quota of gold and diamonds to his little
hoard.
From
the Indians logi beside the river a slender
thread of blue smoke rose straight upward in the
still morning air, and Dan could hear the
subdued, guttural voices of his men as they
busied themselves about their breakfast.
Suddenly one of the bronze-skinned Arekunas stepped from his shelter and peered intently down the river. The next instant a big ten-paddle bateau
dashed around the bend and into
sight, and its crew of huge black Dutch negroes swung their
craft about and headed for the
shore.
Thinking it some gold boat bound upstream, Dan stepped forward to
the bank as the
heavy, bull-necked white man in the
stern rose and leaped ashore.
“Hello!”
he growled, in response to Dan’s cheery greeting “See you’ve got a claim here.
I suppose you don’t mind if a fellow stops a while. Rotten trip up!”
“Certainly
not,” Dan assured him. "Make yourself at home,
Mr. —”
“Wilcox.”
Supplied the other,
“Yes I will. Got any grub?”
“Sure thing.” Laughed Dan, ignoring the other’s
rudeness. “Come back to the shack."
Followed
by the surly Wilcox, Dan led the way and inviting the
other to be seated, he summoned his
Arekuna camp-boy and breakfast was served.
Throughout
the meal Wilcox said little and vouchsafed
no information in regard to himself,
while with furtive eyes he took in everything about the
place as Dan rattled on, telling of his hopes and fears, of his success and
work, and finding, even in the company of the
rough Wilcox, a deal of pleasure, for it had been many months since he had
talked to or had seen a fellow white man.
The
meal over, Dan showed his visitor his sluice and hoppers; he panned out some of the
rich gravel to show its value, and enthusiastically expatiated upon the richness of his claim.
With
scarcely a comment Wilcox followed him,
and when all had been shown, remarked that he'd better be getting on, and with
never a word of thanks, but with a curt nod, stepped into his craft and was
soon out of sight.
"Beastly
rude chap!" murmured Dan half to himself, as he turned away, and thereupon dismissed the
matter from his mind.
* *
* * *
It
was long after midnight when Dan awoke from
a sound sleep with a feeling of impending danger.
Cautiously
raising himself from his hammock, he
peered into the moonlit night, and instantly
two enormous arms were flung about him, a cloth was roughly forced into his
mouth, and in an instant he was bound, gagged and helpless, and was flung unceremoniously
upon the earth outside his hut. Inwardly
raging but impotent Dan glared about, and to his amazement saw four huge negroes
squatted near and looking at him with self-satisfied grins on their repulsive faces. Instantly Dan realized that they were the
Surinam
blacks of Wilcox, and he knew the
reason for his seizure. The stranger had decided to have him put out of the way so he
could jump his claim in safety, and no doubt he was waiting only until his men
should report the deed done before taking possession.
Where,
wondered Dan, were his Arekunas? Had they
too been seized or killed? It was hardly likely, for the
Indians were not men to submit without a struggle. Perhaps, he thought, they were still sleeping, totally unaware of what
was taking place; but this too, seamed unreasonable, for the
Arekunas were born and bred in the
jungle, and Dan knew that they would
awaken at the lightest footfall or
unusual sound.
And
even as he wondered, a frenzied scream of agony and fear reverberated through the forest, as one of the
squatting negroes clutched wildly at his neck, writhing and screaming, while his
fellows leaped to their feet and
dashed first one way and then another, chattering and yelling as though beset with
awful terror.
One
darted towards the river and the boat, but before he had taken a dozen stops he
threw up his hands, stumbled forward, and fell shrieking into the stream. At the
sight the others
turned and rushed back towards the
forest, but again one uttered that awful cry, and rolled upon the earth. The two remaining now cowered trembling
for an instant, and than a slender, tufted object appeared to spring as by magic from
the chest of one, and at his scream the other
fled madly to the canoe, stumbling
across the bodies of his comrades as he ran. Casting loose the painter, he leaped in and shoved the canoe from
the shore, only to fall back in his
death-throes as another dart buried
itself in his back.
It was
all so sudden, so amazing, so unexpected, that Dan was thunderstuck. Within as
many minutes his four assailants had been wiped out of existence, and he knew
now that his Arekunas had not failed him, for he realized that the negroes had fallen victims to the awful woorali-tipped darts of an Indian
blow-gun; but not a sound betrayed the
presence of the Indians, and where the Arekunas might be he could not imagine.
Suddenly
from the
silence of the forest came the clear, querulous of a goatsucker, the tribal call of the
Arekunas, and from the shadows stepped his five naked Indians, their long blow-guns in hand and their quivers of poisoned arrows slung over their shoulders.
Tersely
and rapidly in their "talky-talky”
lingo, the Arekunas explained what
had occurred as they swiftly released
Dan from his bonds. Aroused by the sound of the
negroes’ stealthily approaching boat, they
had instinctively realized that some
deviltry was afoot, and
seizing their primitive weapons, they had slipped into the
jungle to await developments. Then, as soon as the
negroes had withdrawn sufficiently from
their captive to allow them to use their
darts without endangering Dan, they
had blown the silent messengers of
death with unerring accuracy. But while the
four negroes had been disposed of and Dan's liberty obtained, there was still Wilcox and six more of his bushmen
to be reckoned with. If he were waiting to hear from
his four men before descending on the
claim, he would, no doubt, soon tire of waiting and come
himself to investigate, and Dan realized that at any instant his enemy might
appear. Unquestionably he and the
Arekunas might conceal themselves in
the forest and pick off Wilcox and
his men; but while this might satisfy the
savage instinct of the Arekunas,
Dan's mind revolted at the idea of
cold-blooded murder, even to protect his property. On the
other hand, to attempt to hold off
Wilcox and his negroes openly would be suicidal, for he realized the ruthless character of those with whom he had to deal, and his only weapon was a
shot-gun. Even if he did succeed in holding his claim for the present, he knew that Wilcox would only await
another opportunity to surprise him,
and rapidly weighing these matters
in his mind, Dan decided his only course was to travel as rapidly down river as
possible, reach the nearest outlying
Government post, and call upon the
bush police to overpower Wilcox and recover his claim.
Hastily gathering a few supplies and belongings and his little
store of gold and diamonds, Dan hurried his Indians to the
boat, and a moment later was
speeding swiftly down the great
river through the night.
In the
meantime, hidden in a creek half a mile above Dan's claim, Wilcox sat in the stern of his bateau, with his six bush negroes
resting on their paddles, while he
waited for the signal which would
tell him that Dan was safely secured and his Indians put out of the way. Slowly the
time dragged on, and Wilcox, impatient, fumed and growled. Half an hour, he had
decided, would be ample time, and now over three-quarters of an hour had passed
and still no sign. "Hang those lazy niggers!" he muttered. "What
in blazes is keeping them?"
Then, as a new thought entered his head, he cursed loudly and fluently, for he
suddenly remembered Dan's store of gold and precious stones, and it dawned upon
him that perchance his men had seized these
and in Dan's canoe had started down the
river. This thought spurred him to instant activity, and urging his men to their utmost, he swept from
his hiding-place and down the
stream. Not a sound or sign of life showed at Dan's place as he passed it, and
now, fully convinced that his men had played him false, he was fairly beside
himself with rage, and intent only on overtaking the
negroes and recovering the booty
that he was convinced they had
taken.
Suddenly one of his men
uttered a cry and swung the bateau
sharply to one side, for his eyes had detected Dan's canoe floating, apparently
empty and deserted, ahead. An instant later they
were alongside; the bowman reached
forward to secure the canoe's
painter, and the next second tumbled
backward with a cry of terror. Face down upon the
bottom of the
boat was the form of a negro, with a
poisoned dart between his shoulder blades. Wilcox reached into the drifting canoe and turned the
dead man over. It was the body of
Wilcox's boat captain, and with a curse he let the
corpse drop back, and casting loose the
canoe, ordered his men to turn back to the
claim. Running the bateau upon the bank, Wilcox leaped ashore, closely followed by
his men. Stumbling over the bodies
of the negroes, they dashed to the
hut, only to find it empty, deserted, and the
bags of treasure gone, and to see the
bodies of the negroes sprawled in
grotesque, awful attitudes where they
had fallen.
Wilcox was furious, mad with
rage; he had planned to secure the
claim and Dan's hoardings, to put the
owner and the Indians where they could tell no tales, and now Dan and his
Indians had escaped to carry their
story to the police; his bush negroes
had been killed by the Arekunas'
darts, and the diamonds and gold
were gone. He could not hope to stay and work the
claim; he knew that within a week the
hand of the British law would be
upon him; he could not escape down river without passing the
gold station with its police; he could not wander for long in the unbroken wilderness above the
claim. His only hope lay in overtaking Dan and his Indians, in destroying them and all evidence of his deeds, and cursing and
swearing, he ordered his men to the
boat and drove them with threats and
vile epithets to strain every muscle
in their mad rush after Dan's canoe.
Already Dan and his Arekunas
were miles below the claim. They
realized that Wilcox might follow, but speeding down stream they felt fairly safe. Nevertheless,
when day dawned they took no chances
and hugged the shores, while
constantly keeping a sharp lookout astern. There were no signs of pursuers,
however. Nothing disturbed their
camp that night and the second day
passed safely by. Little effort was required to make good time, for the stream flowed swiftly; they
flashed through rapids which fairly took Dan's breath away, and only when
taking short cuts through hidden creeks known only to the
Arekunas were the men obliged to
exert themselves at the paddles.
At last the broad Essequibo
was reached, the unknown wilderness
was astern, no pursuing boat had been sighted, and Dan and his Indians felt
that Wilcox had decided not to follow and that danger was over.
That night, camp was made
within the shelter of a small creek,
and at sunrise the canoe crept forth
to resume its way towards the gold
station fifty miles beyond. Scarcely had the
bow issued from the screen of foliage when the
Arekuna bowman hissed a low cry of warning; within two hundred yards and
rapidly approaching them was the big bateau with Wilcox in the
stern!
To retreat within the creek was useless; a shout from the
negroes told that they had been
seen. Their hope lay in speeding down the
river and outdistancing the heavier
boat, and without an instant's hesitation the
Indians dug their paddles into the water and dashed away.
Leaping to his feet, Wilcox
raised his rifle to fire at the
fleeing canoe; but the craft was
dancing crazily upon the river, his
own boat was lurching forward at every stroke of the
big paddles; it was impossible to secure a steady aim and, confident that he
could overtake Dan's boat, he contented himself with waiting and cursing his
men to redoubled efforts.
In speed the two boats were nearly equal, for Wilcox's bateau,
although heavier than Dan's canoe, was handled by more and stronger men, while the superior knowledge of channels, rocks and
currents possessed by the Indians
enabled them to follow a shorter and
more direct course and to take advantage of the
river's swiftest currents to aid them.
It was a mad, wild race, and
much as Dan feared the result—for he
knew that Wilcox would not stop at murder to save himself from the
law and to secure the gems and
gold—yet he thrilled with the
excitement, and grasping a paddle did his utmost to add a little to the canoe's speed. Now and again he glanced
furtively back, and each time he realized that the
space between the two craft was
rapidly decreasing.
Onward they
swept; now they rounded a sharp
bend, anon they dashed diagonally
across the stream, the Indians taking advantage of every current, every
eddy to aid them in their flight, while close in their
wake hung the big bateau following their every turn and ever creeping closer and
closer.
Each second Dan expected to
hear the roar of Wilcox's gun, to
feel the sting of the bullet, and then
it dawned upon him that his pursuer could not fire without endangering his own
men, that as long as he was compelled
to follow bow on, the Indians and
himself were safe, and that if Wilcox swung his boat to one side in order to
cripple the fugitives it would mean
such a loss of time that there would
be no hope of overtaking the
Arekunas, to say nothing of the
danger of striking rocks.
But despite this, Dan knew
that the end must soon come—even now the
distance between his canoe and the
bateau had been lessened by half, and in another
half hour Wilcox's boat would be alongside and resistance would be hopeless.
And as these thoughts came to him,
he heard the roar of falls ahead; the canoe leaped forth like a frightened bird at the drag of the
current, and an instant later they
were tearing madly, furiously through the
rapids, grazing jagged rocks, leaping over miniature cataracts, grinding over
submerged reefs and escaping annihilation by a miracle, while all about the water was churned to foam that dashed high in
showers of spray. The boat jumped, rocked, swung dizzily, whirled like a
teetotum, and water poured over the
gunwale; but unflinchingly, steadily the
Indians kept on, the bowman standing
aloft on the sweeping, swaying stem,
and the others
plying paddles furiously to add to the
canoe's terrific speed.
Dan strove to glance back,
and in the seething torrent behind
he caught a glimpse of Wilcox's boat, gleaming black amid the white water and leaping after them like a thing of life.
The next moment they
swept through a narrow channel between two islets, and the
bowman shouted to Dan to hold fast, that they
were about to try a final and perilous expedient to escape. Hardly were his
words uttered when the frail canoe
swept past the islands and into an
area of smooth, open water from
which two channels led. Into the
left of these dashed the Arekunas, and Dan's heart seemed to cease
beating as he saw that the canoe was
headed for the brink of a cataract. The roar of the falling water filled his ears, clouds of spray
rose above the spot where the river appeared to drop into space, and Dan knew
that their chances of life after
plunging over the falls was not one
in ten thousand.
But he felt perfect confidence
in his Indians. If they could take the risk so could he, and he gripped the sides of the
canoe, crouched low and with compressed
lips awaited the sickening drop.
Now the
verge of the cataract was close at
hand, the smooth, green crest seemed
almost within arm's reach, and then,
with all their power, the men backed water furiously, the bowman strained at his big paddle, the canoe spun about as on a pivot, and darted to
one side so close to the verge that
Dan could see the tumbling, churning
waters and the jagged rocks fully
fifty feet below. Then, as he grasped what had occurred, the
canoe was swept in safety to a quiet backwater to the
right of the cataract.
In the
meantime, Wilcox's men, intent upon the
chase, had not noticed their danger
until too late; they did not know the eddy which allowed the
Indians to check their mad rush and
swing aside, and as Dan's canoe reached the
backwater the pursuers were swept
onward to destruction. Although the
Arekunas' ruse had succeeded, yet they
did not escape unscathed, for as the negroes flung themselves
from their
boat and strove vainly to save themselves
by swimming, Wilcox levelled his rifle and fired. At the
report the Arekuna bowman threw up
his hands, and staggering back, plunged lifeless into the
river, while his murderer, with a shout of triumph and a curse, shot over the brink of the
cataract and into the maelstrom beneath.
Wilcox escaped death by a
veritable miracle. His bateau shot far beyond the
tumbling mass of water and landed right side up between the
rocks and was swept unhurt down the
river below the falls. But he had
not escaped unseen, for the Arekunas
had leaped ashore and, hurrying to the
brink of the cataract, peered into the abyss to learn the
fate of their pursuers.
From
the hunted, the
Indians had been instantly transformed to the
hunters by the death of their leader, for tribal law demanded that he must
be avenged. If Wilcox came to his death in the
falls all was well—Tumaki the Great
Spirit had taken the matter into his
own hands—but if by chance he survived he must be followed, tracked down, and
blood vengeance obtained in full.
No court of justice would be
resorted to; no white men's laws invoked. By the
methods established through untold centuries of tribal custom, by tradition sacred to their
minds, there was but one way in
which the debt could be paid—death
at the hands of Kenaima, the Avenger of Blood.
And when, from the
turmoil and spray, the Arekunas saw the black form of the
boat emerge with Wilcox, white-faced, terror-stricken and half stunned,
crouched upon the bottom, a subdued cry of joy and exultation sprang from the
Indians' throats.
For a moment
Wilcox's boat gyrated wildly in dizzying circles within the
grip of the whirlpools below the cataract, and then,
seized by the current, it was swept
clear and darted out of sight beyond a bend in the
stream.
Satisfied that Wilcox still
lived, the Arekunas returned to their boat, covered the
body of their slain comrade with broad leaves, and bearing their dead, paddled from
the scene of the
tragedy. By swift-flowing channels between the
rocks the canoe slipped down the river, and ever and anon, as the Arekunas talked together
in low tones, Dan caught the word
"Kenaima."
So great had been their peril, so swiftly had death come to both enemies and friends, that Dan had sat
silent, awed and dumbfounded. But now he spoke, inquiring of his men if Wilcox
had been killed, lamenting the death
of the bowman and praising the Indians for the
success of their daring trick which
had won their escape.
But when he learned that
Wilcox had survived, that he was unhurt and had been carried down the river ahead of his canoe, he felt that all
danger was not over, that the rascal
might lie in wait upon the bank and
pick them off as they slipped by.
The Indians, however, laughed
at his expressed fears; and in positive tones one of them
declared: "Me tellum him all same dead like so. Kenaima must for
killum. No can makeum walk from
Kenaima. Mebbe long time, mebbe same day, all same Kenaima catchum."
Dan could not understand. “What
do you mean Kenaima?" he asked.
The Indian spoke rapidly with
his companions and then, addressing Dan, replied: "You good fella,
good friend, all same Buckman—all same brother.
Me tellum how makeum Kenaima for killum." Then, as he plied his paddle and
the canoe shot swiftly down the
river, he told Dan of the Arekunas'
code of vengeance.
He explained how blood must
be paid by blood; how Arekuna law demanded an eye for an eye, a life for a
life—yes, more, for not only must he who has slain another
be killed, but all his relations must also pay the
penalty of his act. He related tales of whole families wiped out through this
law, and of tribes decimated by the
feud of blood vengeance. In his crude "talky-talky" jargon he
described the Kenaima—the one selected to wreak vengeance for the slain—how there
were various kinds of Kenaimas, the
commonest of which were the "Camudi Kenaima" and the "Tiger Kenaima," and how they killed their
victims; the first by strangling
like his namesake, the great boa or
camudi, the other
striking them down like a tiger by a
short wooden club. He dilated upon the
impossibility of anyone escaping from
the Avenger, and the patient, unceasing, unremitting determination
with which the Kenaima trailed the doomed
man for weeks, months or years, if need be, until the
execution was accomplished.
"But why in blazes don't
the Kenaimas get killed?"
asked Dan, to whom all this was
absolutely new and almost incredible.
"Mebbe some time make for killum," replied the Arekuna " 'Spose killum one Kenaima, other Kenaima make for catchum same way. Me tellum no
good try for run from Kenaima;
Kenaima all same like devil."
"So a Kenaima's going
after Wilcox, eh?" muttered Dan. "Glad I'm not in his shoes. He'd
better have been killed in the falls!"
The Indian grinned.
"When gettum Arekuna camp, makeum Kenaima," he stated grimly, and
relapsed into silence.
While they
had been talking the canoe had been
sweeping past wooded shores, but no sign of Wilcox or his craft were seen, for the river forked below the
falls, and the Arekunas had
descended the right-hand stream
while Wilcox had been carried to the
left.
By midday the Indians' canoe had passed the
rapids; it floated upon a broad, tranquil, lake-like expanse of river, and
paddling rapidly across this, the
Arekunas entered a small creek. For several miles the
stream wound through the forest, and
then a small clearing was reached
with an Indian logi, or hut, upon the
bank. Here the canoe was run ashore,
and one of the tribesmen uttered a
long, mournful, wailing cry. An instant later a score of Indians came hurrying
towards the boat, and in excited
tones held converse with the new
arrivals. Then, lifting the body of the slain Indian, they
moved up the narrow trail with Dan,
feeling out of place, bringing up the
rear.
Everyone was too busy, too
excited and too angry to give any heed to the
white man, and Dan sat alone in a hammock in a benab, watching the Arekunas, who buzzed and swarmed about the hut containing the
body like so many angry hornets.
At last order was restored, the Indians quieted down and the
dead Indian was carried to a sandy spot outside the
village, where a grave was scooped and the
body buried. One of Dan's men now approached and explained that a Kenaima was
being selected, for, as the dead man
had no male relatives, the duty of
avenging him fell upon the tribe as
a whole, and a Kenaima would be chosen by drawing lots.
Much as Dan would have liked
to witness the ceremony, the Arekuna declared it impossible, as no white man
could be permitted to look upon the
ceremonies connected with choosing and sending forth the
Avenger.
Suddenly a low, chanting song
issued from the
hut where the ceremony was being
held, and glancing up, Dan beheld a strange and striking figure stepping forth.
His bronze skin was hideously daubed with white, black and scarlet in imitation
of the jaguar; about his shoulders
was a mantle of coal-black feathers,
a belt of bright beads was about his waist, a necklet of tiger teeth was draped
across his chest, strings of toucan beaks and breasts hung down his back, and
upon his blue-black hair was a magnificent crown of macaw feathers. In one hand he grasped a bow and arrows, in the other
he carried a short, heavy club of carved wood, and as he stalked majestically
from his hut he chanted the low song in which all the
other Indians joined.
As the
Kenaima reached the edge of the clearing the
chant ceased instantly, and the
Avenger halted and faced the setting
sun. Dropping his bow and arrows he drew his knife, cut his arm until the blood flowed freely, and plucking a broad leaf,
rubbed the charm into the wound. Then, removing his feather crown and placing it upon his bow and arrows,
he swung his club high in air, uttered the
blood-curdling scream of the jaguar,
and with a bound disappeared in the
jungle. The Kenaima was on Wilcox's trail!
* * *
Wilcox was in a terrible
plight. For a few moments after he
shot over the falls he had been too dazed to think of
guiding his boat, and sat, clutching at the
gunwales, unable to believe that he actually had survived the terrible plunge.
Then realization came to him,
and seizing a paddle he guided his craft down the
stream. But while life had been spared he was in a most precarious position.
All his men had perished; he was alone in the
wilderness, and to seek his fellow men meant arrest and imprisonment, for
Colonial law he knew was swift and severe, and he had attempted the most despicable of bush crimes—to jump another's claim, and he had killed an Indian, one of the Government's wards. To attempt to force his way
out of the jungle up the river was impossible. He must either go down and through the
settlements or take to the bush and
strive to seek safety beyond the
borders of Venezuela or Surinam—a task
he knew to be well nigh impossible. Luckily for him he still retained his gun
and a limited supply of cartridges, and he would not starve for the present. Then, realizing that he was hungry, he
ran his boat ashore and stepped into the
jungle in search of game. At the end
of an hour's hunt he secured a peccary, and having cooked and eaten a hearty
meal, he suspended the balance of the carcass over a smoky fire to cure or "bucan"
after the method of the Indians.
With all his faults, and they were legion, Wilcox had a supreme confidence in
himself, and he at once commenced
planning for the future. If he could
win his way eastward to the
Corantyne, all would be well, and he had little doubt that in time he could do
this. But it would mean long delays and tremendous hardships, and despite this
and his ill luck, he did not despair of accomplishing
his escape even though he knew that police, Indians and bushmen throughout the colony would be on the
lookout for him. He was far too old and experienced a hand in the bush to underrate the
difficulties and dangers that threatened him, but these
seemed of little consequence at the
time, for he was still furious at Dan's escape with the
gold and diamonds and at the
Arekunas for having outwitted and nearly destroyed him, and he cursed Dan and
his men as loudly and vociferously as though they
had been present to hear him.
But he had squared accounts
with one Buck at all events, he had seen the
man plunge forward at the report of
his rifle, and this knowledge did much to cheer him. Little did he dream that,
only a few miles away, plans were already made to avenge his victim, and that the dread Kenaima was already upon his trail.
For several days he proceeded
down river, camping wherever he found a dry spot, killing game as he needed it,
and maintaining a keen watch for waterways leading eastward, and for possible
camps or settlements. Then one morning he reached the
mouth of a large creek which seemed to promise
well, and abandoning the main stream
he paddled into it. His supply of meat was getting low and game seemed scarce;
but early in the afternoon of the next day he saw a large capybara which he
secured by a lucky shot.
Had he but known that the report of his gun served to betray his presence
to a grim figure paddling down a near-by creek, the
capybara would have been left in peace and Wilcox might have met a very
different fate.
But any such thought never
crossed his mind, and reaching a good spot, Wilcox drew his boat ashore, built
a large fire and prepared to spend the
night. He dined well, hung the rest
of his meat to smoke and lounged beside his fire, but as darkness fell he commenced to feel uneasy and nervous. Never in his
life of crime had he been troubled with nerves; he had never acknowledged that
he was afraid of man or beast, and he scoffed at the
supernatural. But here, in the
solitude of the jungle, a vague,
unreasoning fear crept over him. He felt as though watched by unseen eyes, as
if some sinister thing were near,
threatening his life, and yet he knew, or tried to reason, that it was impossible.
In vain he tried to shake off the
feeling, to laugh at his sensations, to reason with himself. Then it occurred
to him that he had been without liquor for several days, that he had undergone
an experience which would have unstrung most men, and that no doubt his unusual
nervousness was due to these causes.
Relieved somewhat by these
thoughts, he threw himself down to sleep, but each time he dozed he awoke with
a start to find himself staring into the
blackness of the forest, listening
with straining ears and trembling with nameless dread.
He cursed himself for his
foolishness, wondered if by any chance he had an attack of fever, and then, finding sleep impossible, piled fuel on the dying fire and, crouching beside it with gun
within reach, he spent the hours
till dawn in abject misery.
With the
coming of daylight much of his
nervousness left him and, having eaten, he again pushed his boat into the stream and paddled, onward through the forest.
Presently, however, the same unaccountable, tingling sensations again
assailed him; he found himself furtively glancing to right and left, turning
often to look behind and unconsciously hurrying forward and paddling furiously.
His senses told him nothing more dangerous than the
ordinary wild beasts could be near; he knew that he had nothing to fear from them,
and yet somehow he could not rid
himself of the idea that he was
being watched, that some danger
lurked near, that something was
following him.
So strong did this feeling
become that twice he ran his boat
into a hiding-place among the
foliage and waited with cocked gun for his pursuers to appear. But he saw
nothing, no unusual sight or sound broke the
silence of the wilderness, and he
again continued on his way.
By mid-afternoon he was
trembling, shaking with terror of an intangible something,
and when the cry of a jaguar came from the
forest in the rear he shrieked aloud
with fright. The sound of his own voice somewhat
calmed him, however, and he even felt relieved at the
tiger's scream, for here at least was something
real, and to keep up his courage he commenced
to shout and sing.
He longed to escape from the
creek—it seemed interminably long, and each moment
he expected to see open water ahead and to find himself upon the river, but the
sinking sun found him still upon the
jungle creek, and he realized that he must spend another
awful night in the forest.
There was a tiny island in the stream, and here he made his camp, first
examining every inch of the ground,
every clump of brush and each tree, to assure himself that nothing was there to disturb him or cause him fear. Despite all
this, he was still haunted by the
feeling that danger menaced him, that watchful eyes were peering at him from the
darkness and, when an unsuspecting owl winged softly to a branch above his head and uttered its mournful call,
Wilcox was so startled that he involuntarily discharged his gun. As if in
answer to the echoes of the explosion, the
jaguar's scream reverberated through the
forest, seemingly close at hand. Swearing at his carelessness, Wilcox reloaded
his rifle, for he now had no ammunition to waste, and at last, weary and
overwrought, he dropped into a fitful, troubled sleep. Several times the tiger's cry disturbed him, but he was only
semi-conscious of the sound, and not
until the sunlight streamed through the treetops did he really awake.
He felt much better—a great
deal of his nervousness was gone, and he ate a hearty breakfast. Then, rising,
he started towards the boat, but the next moment
sprang back, trembling and shaking at what met his eyes. Upon the soft brown earth were the
imprints of human feet!
Wilcox was dumbfounded,
paralysed with nameless terror. The night before the
earth had been smooth, unmarked by footprint of man or beast, and now,
everywhere about his camping place, were the
impressions of naked feet, forming a complete
circle around the spot where he had
slept.
Who could have been there during the
night? No boat, no canoe, not even a wood-skin was drawn upon the shores; there
was no sign of a camp fire other than
his own, and as he searched more closely his terror increased, for no trail led
downward to the only landing place
upon the islet.
Summoning up every atom of his self-control, Wilcox tried to reason it
out, but it was inexplicable, incomprehensible.
No human being could have landed and approached his camp without leaving a
trail upon the soft earth, for fully
fifty feet of bare muddy ground lay between the
little knoll on which he had camped and the
only spot at which a boat could land. And yet the
fact remained that it had been done, that some
man had been there, had walked, not
once but many times, about his sleeping place, and had disappeared as
mysteriously as he came.
But was it a human
being after all? He called to mind weird tales he had heard of strange,
half-human beings who inhabited the
forests; tales told by the
half-breed balata gatherers around
many a camp fire. Perhaps, after all, he thought, some
of these tales might be true—perhaps
such things did dwell in the
jungle and tracked down and destroyed the
solitary wanderer. Such a thing might account for his fears, for the instinctive feeling that he was being followed,
and each moment, as his mind dwelt
upon the matter, his terror
increased by leaps and bounds.
He had never been
superstitious, but now that superstition had gripped him, fear of the supernatural drove every atom of reason from
his brain.
He strove to recall each
detail of the stories he had heard,
what the weird beings were like, how
they sought and killed their victims, by what signs they
were known, and then, amid the confused jumble of memories that filled his
terrorized mind, came the thought of
Kenaima.
Instantly the vague idea became a certainty; he had killed an
Indian, and the dreaded avenger of
blood was on his trail. Fool that he was not to have thought of it before! Yes,
that was it beyond a shadow of a doubt. He had been followed, unseen eyes had
watched him, deadly peril lurked in every tree, bush and thicket; even now the Kenaima might be ready to strike; and dashing to
his boat he leaped in, shoved it far from
shore, and paddled furiously away from
the accursed spot. As he went, the scream of the
jaguar sounded from the jungle, and at the
sound his "blood seemed to freeze within his veins, cold chills ran up and
down his back, and like a madman he strove to make better speed, for now he
knew the wailing cry issued from no cat's throat but was the
mocking yell of triumph that sealed his doom—the Tiger Kenaima was sure of his prey!
With the
white man's contempt for the
brown-skinned aborigines with whom
he had come in contact, Wilcox had
never paid any heed to the beliefs
or customs of the
Indians. Only by chance had he heard of the
Kenaima, and he knew nothing whatever about the
methods, the character, or the real identity of the
blood avengers. Surrounding it with the
mystery and imagery of which the
aboriginal mind is so fond, the
Indians always spoke of the Kenaima
as a semi-supernatural being; and, while they
knew full well that any one of their
number might be called upon to fill the
role of the avenger, and while every
man owned a Kenaima club, yet they
firmly believed that, through the
ceremonies enacted when a Kenaima set forth on his mission, he became endowed
with superhuman powers and acquired something
of the real character of the serpent or the
jaguar. Thus, to Wilcox, the Kenaima
had been represented as a mysterious being, a man who assumed the form of the
boa or the tiger at will, an
embodied spirit of vengeance who was invulnerable and immortal and against
which no human power and no weapon could avail.
At the
time, Wilcox had laughed in the face
of him who told the tale, had cursed
him for a superstitious, heathen
savage, had declared such stuff utter bosh and nonsense, and then had dismissed it from
his thoughts. But now, alone in the
forest on this dark and dismal creek, knowing himself a murderer and terrorized
with his fear of the unknown,
haunted by the mysterious footsteps
about his camp, and with the cry of the jaguar still ringing in his ears, the story of Kenaima came back to him in its every
detail.
Onward he sped; his only
thought was to escape the vengeance
he knew followed. His boat grated upon sunken logs; it plunged through
overhanging vines and drooping limbs. The poisonous spines of palms and
tree-ferns pierced his shoulders and his hands, the
great recurved hooks of armed creepers raked the
hat from his head and tore his clothes to ribbons, and razor-grass left bleeding welts
across forehead and cheeks.
But he never paused;
unheeding pain, oblivious to all save the
terror of the unknown, awful thing
behind him, he dashed on; his one desire to win away from
the terrible jungle, his one hope
that by some miracle he might yet
escape the Kenaima.
No longer was he a rational
human being; his flesh was insensible to pain, his mind a blank, save for the mortal terror that consumed him. He was scarce
more than an automaton driven onward
by the relentless power of fear.
Suddenly, through the foliage ahead, the
maddened man saw the silvery glint
of sunlit water. He shouted deliriously; the
river was ahead, the forest would
soon be left behind, and recklessly he drove his craft towards his goal. Then,
just as the mouth of the creek was gained, when another
stroke of his paddle would have carried him free, his bateau struck upon a
submerged log, the craft careened,
water poured over the gunwale, and
in the twinkling of an eye Wilcox
was struggling in the river.
The sudden shock cleared his
brain, the cool water soothed his aching head and lacerated skin; it was
wonderfully pleasant, marvellously refreshing.
From
the soft blue sky the sun shone bright and warm, and free from the
depressing effect of the dark
jungle, his insane terror in a measure left him, and he swam slowly towards the capsized boat which drifted just beyond.
Suddenly he uttered a
piercing howl of pain, and turning, struck frantically for the shore, for the
terrible perai fish—savage as wolves and attracted by the
scent of blood from Wilcox's
thorn-torn hands—were swarming about him and snapping at his flesh with
knife-like jaws. Instantly he realized that here he faced a death more awful
than he had feared from the Kenaima. In a few moments
he would be devoured alive—the
living, palpitating flesh stripped from
his bones, and madly he strove to regain the
land.
Weakly he crawled upon the bank at last, and bleeding from a score of wounds he drew himself among the trees. Human flesh and endurance could withstand
no more; he was beaten, trapped, done. Either
within the water or upon the land lay certain death; there
was no escape, and little caring what happened, he threw his suffering, wearied
body upon the ground to await his
fate.
As he sank back among the dank leaves a mottled, root-like object writhed to one side; swiftly it coiled, and a flat,
diamond-shaped head darted forward with the
speed of light. But Wilcox's eyes were closed, his dulled ears failed to hear the light rustle or the
angry hiss; his swollen, lacerated arms scarce twitched at the sharp prick of the
fangs.
Rapidly an overpowering
drowsiness possessed him; the fear
of the Kenaima fled from his mind, and peacefully, painlessly, he drifted
into everlasting sleep.
As the
sinking sun gilded the tranquil
waters of the Essequibo
a strange figure crept from the forest near the
mouth of a little creek. Across its chest hung a necklet of jaguar teeth; about
its shoulders was a cape of black feathers.
Painted with black, white and
red, it resembled a jaguar more than a human being, and in one hand it grasped
a heavy club of peculiar form. Stealthily as a great cat it stole forward;
black piercing eyes glancing first here, now there,
until among the tangled shrubbery it
spied a prostrate man.
A grim smile of satisfaction
flitted across the figure's face
and, inch by inch, it drew itself towards the
unconscious white man. Without a sound it reached his side, and, crouching by a
clump of coarse lilies, it raised the
deadly club to strike.
But the
blow never fell. Slowly the upraised
arm was lowered; silently as it had come,
the sinister form crept away and
disappeared.
Coiled upon Wilcox's breast
was a great Bushmaster; upon the
lifeless arms were the marks of its
deadly fangs. The Kenaima had arrived too late. The Great Spirit had seen that
vengeance was done.
