The Shrunken Head by Fish Robert L.;

Author:Fish, Robert L.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 1962-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

ON THE FAR side of the river the three men fought their way west with painfully slow progress. Da Silva refused to withdraw very far from the river for fear it might curl to the north and leave them beating their way inland for precious hours; yet close to the swiftly running water the trees were bound together in the densest kind of jungle growth, hampering every step. Here Da Silva led the way with the tireless Captain Freitas at his side; the two chopped their way steadily through the tangled brush and vine, sweat pouring into their eyes, constantly beset by mosquitoes and tiny black flies whose bite was even more painful. Wilson staggered behind, slashed by the backlash of branches, his face itching from the insect bites, his mind lost in a dream of hot baths and cool sheets.

It was late afternoon when the forest ahead suddenly seemed to lighten; the trees thinned and the brush gave way to thickets of tall reeds. They pushed through cautiously; they were on the banks of a small inlet that led to the main river, a few hundred feet to their right. They paused, panting, studying the terrain, listening to the ever-present sounds of the jungle. There was a sharp plop; they stepped back as a large caiman slipped from the reeds at their feet and slithered into the water.

Captain Freitas eased his pack from his back, laid it down, and lowered himself upon it. He jammed his empty pipe between his big jaws and sucked on it while he looked about and nodded.

“This ought to do,” he said quietly. His eyes skirted the banks of the inlet. “We've come far enough, and we ought to find plenty of logs around. And there's no shortage of vines.”

Wilson let his pack drop and fell on it in near exhaustion. “I like a man who doesn't exaggerate,” he said sourly. “There's certainly no shortage of vines.”

Da Silva laid his pack down and stretched himself beside it, propping his back against a tree. “Let's rest a minute,” he said wearily. He leaned his head back against the smooth bark and wiped his forehead.

The three men stared at each other: they were ragged and torn, their beards were filthy from the brush, their eyes were squinting painfully from the brighter light reflected back from the still waters of the inlet. Welts from sprung branches and dried blood from scratched insect bites laced their tired faces; their hands were scarred and aching from the constant grip of the machetes and the whip of burrs against them.

Wilson grinned. “Men of Distinction...”

Da Silva smiled faintly. “Drink pinga." He sighed mightily and looked about. “Well, fun's fun, but there's work to do. Let's get started.”

He turned to push himself to his feet. There was a sharp buzz in his ear and he unconsciously raised a hand to brush at it. And then his eyes widened; he was staring at a short black dart still quivering in the tree where his head had been a moment before.

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