Alexander Key
Brother of the Didi
Short Story
    Myths come from facts – and sometimes—

    Herr Doktor Rhuber sat on the veranda of Colin Campbell’s thatched house in Barranca and mopped his bald dome in exasperated silence. Among the points contributing to Colin Campbell’s reputation – a reputation that extended from Manaos to Lima – were such lesser qualities as brevity and veracity. At the moment the Herr Doktor found each of them annoying.
    “But, man! – you say that is an elephant gun?” He peered closer at the heavy rifle across the thin man’s knees.
    Colin Campbell nodded and snapped the breech bolt closed upon a shell. His narrowed, rather wide-apart gray eyes studied the river; it flowed beneath the pilings of the house, swept through fifty miles of flooded jungle behind it, and moved slowly southward to join the Amazon.
    The Herr Doktor pursed his fat lips. “An elephant gun – in Brazil!”
    “This is the Putumayo country – not Brazil.”
    “Ach, yes, of course. Four republics claim it, und you rule it like a king; don’t I know?” The Herr Doktor, discoverer of some fifty-odd new species of orchids at various points around the equator, frowned reprovingly at his friend. “But I do not understand! You cable abroad for a rifle – a veritable Big Bertha of a gun – und you haff it flown up from Para, quickly. Himmel, for what?”
    “To shoot with,” said Colin Campbell mildly. He braced his left arm in the slip strap and squinted through the telescopic sights at a dark object some hundreds of yards away on the river.
    Rhuber took out his field glasses and adjusted them hurriedly. “So! – an alligator. You cannot hit him from here.”
    The gun roared; its recoil sent Campbell back against the wall. Spray geysered far out on the river. Vomited up with the water was the alligator, in two distinct pieces.
    “One of us is a Dumkopf,” persisted the Herr Doktor. “I still do not comprehend. There is no game in this country for such a cannon. One shot, und – phut! – it is no more. I cannot imagine Colin Campbell butchering even an elephant with such armament. Und there are no elephants here. What are you going to hunt, my friend?”
    Campbell cleaned the gun carefully and replaced it in its case. “That,” he said slowly, “is a question I wish I could answer. The creature has not yet been classified.”
    “Eh?” Rhuber’s mouth sagged.
    Campbell jerked his thumb to the black jungle beyond the row of thatched huts on stilts comprising the settlement of Barranca. “My best grades of rubber and balata come from back in there. Only, in the past month, every Indian in the region has moved out. A cauchero will not enter the place for his weight in gold. In the morning I am going back in there – hunting.”
    The Herr Doktor’s chubby face grew rounder. His eyebrows went up and he smiled. “It sounds dangerous. Why did you not buy a howitzer?” He slapped his knee and laughed. The sound gathered deep down in his chest and came out in a whole-hearted bellow. It echoed over the water, and brought Colin Campbell’s servant, Tiano, ogling at the door.
    * * *
    Campbell smiled thinly and waited until the fat botanist was through. Rhuber’s laugh always amused him; he heard it now without malice.
    “Tiano, you monkey,” he said to the wizened, yellow-skinned mestizo who stood blinking his little black eyes at Rhuber. “Tell the good doctor what we saw back in the bush last month.”
    Tiano’s fingers clutched his throat. “Yes, amo. B-but it is a tale I like not to repeat. W-we went up into the dark place beyond the Mangeroma country. In the night Caépora came forth from the marsh and filled the air with his roaring. He walked through the village and tramped houses flat, and he snapped off great trees as if they were twigs. In the morning it seemed as if a mighty torbellino had swept through the forest. And there in the mud we saw Caépora’s footprints. They were the size of this poor one’s body!”
    The corners of the Herr Doktor’s mouth quivered again. “Caépora, eh? Ja, the old jungle demon; half man und half something else. The hairy nightmare of little children’s dreams. All around the world I haff heard of him, the same demon with anodder name attached. Caépora! Ha! I did not believe I would live to see Colin Campbell take stock in such things.”
    Campbell’s lean face did not change expression. Caépora or no, the matter was purely a business one.
    “Tiano,” he said, staring soberly at the little Peruvian, “did we not see some rather unusual orchids over in the Mangevoma country?”
    Tiano screwed up his monkeylike face. Blood of three races and a lifetime in the jungles had not produced dull wits. “Yes, amo. And such orchids! Great ones as wide as washtubs, spotted, and of the color of thick blood.”
    “Eh?” Rhuber leaned forward, munching greedily at the bait. “Orchids? Deep-magenta ones?”
    “But, yes, Herr Doktor.” Tiano was well aware of Rhuber’s weakness – that he had sought for seven years in as many countries for a magenta orchid of a certain shade.
    “Big as washtubs! Would it be possible, Colin, to, ah, er—”
    “If you’d like-to come along in the morning,” said Campbell gravely, “I think we can find room. But I warn you—”
    “Superstition!” spat Rhuber. “Phut! For a good orchid I would eat dinner with a hundred Caéporas.”
    * * *
    Propelled by four Napo Indian paddlers, Campbell’s mahogany dugout slid into the flooded jungle beyond the river edge. Green twilight closed around them; for days, now, the dense canopy overhead would be unbroken by a single glimpse of the sun.
    Rhuber had no idea of what lay ahead of him. He would laugh at any explanation offered, call it nonsense, and dismiss it with several lusty chuckles.
    Colin Campbell had lived twenty of his forty years in the Matto Grosso. He had seen a great deal in that time—
    The first two nights were spent in the cramped bottom of the dugout. The third afternoon brought them to the first spur of dry land. On a small mound above high-water mark was the deserted tambo of some of Campbell’s rubber workers. A rusty machete and two hammocks still tied beneath the thatch bore evidence of a hasty departure.
    Rhuber peered around briefly for signs of interesting flora, found none, and immediately strung up his hammock. He was soon snoring loudly.
    “The fat one,” muttered Tiano in his Spanish-Inca jargon, “would not sleep so well if he but knew—” Tiano stopped, closed his eyes. “Amohe whispered, “I hear the Mangeroma drums speaking.”
    Campbell stood rock-still, listening. He could hear nothing. The jungle was silent – deathly silent. The four Napo paddlers sat in the smoke; grim, bronze images staring in the same direction.
    “What say the drums, little monkey?”
    Tiano squatted on his haunches, face puckered like a dried apple, eyes squeezed tight. “The drums are high – they have moved to the ceiba trees and are hard to hear. They speak of you, amo. One drum tells another that the king of the huiracuches – white men – has come. It says your magic must no longer be as great as it was or Caé-pora would never have trespassed where you rule.”
    “And what answer makes the other drum?”
    “It is far away, amo, very far.”
    “Clean the filth from your ears, little monkey, and listen again.”
    Tiano held his face to the ground. His features knotted together; sweat dripped from his naked, saffron hide. “The other drum, amo, speaks of Caépora. Caépora still walks abroad.”
    * * *
    They broke camp and were under way before the morning rain began to stream down through the leaves, and run like gushing springs from the ends of the palm fronds. The rain stopped after an hour and a steamy mist hung head-high above the water. As the day gathered heat, the mist rose and disappeared in the gray-green canopy above.
    Campbell sent the dugout down a narrow channel between great masses of crowding ferns. Rhuber’s interest quickened as the scene changed. The way had been dark enough before, but now the gloom increased. Aerial roots hung down in unending curtains. A maze of lianas, bigger than a man’s body, writhed and twisted through them like immense serpents, clutched and wound themselves about forest giants as if they would strangle the life out of them.
    By noon, Campbell could hear the Mangeroma drums clearly – sharp, ringing sounds, as muscular arms beat a tremolo on the hollow mora logs. He knew that unseen eyes watched them, sent the news of their approach to others farther on.
    By noon the next day the last drum was far behind. Campbell turned the dugout into an almost imperceptible opening in the ferns. They pushed through semidarkness for a hundred yards, came out abruptly upon dry ground and a shaft of brilliant sunlight. A half dozen sagging, badly smashed huts stood before them.
    “We walk from here,” said Campbell.
    Rhuber peered sardonically at the ruined huts. “Once,” he said, “in a storm down on the Marañon, I saw three tapirs wreck a village. It happened at night. Ja, those tapirs were scared of lightning!”
    “This village was not wrecked by tapirs,” said Campbell in his mildest voice.
    “During that storm,” the Herr Doktor went on, imperturbed, “the wind sent great limbs crashing to the ground. It sounded as if a Tyrannosaurus und seven mastodons were holding a jubilee. The Indians left und never came back.”
    “I was here when this happened,” said Campbell. “There was no storm.”
    “Ja,” said Rhuber, grinning. “Where are those magenta orchids?”
    “A day’s march ahead, perhaps.”
    Campbell gave an order to the pad-dlers. They stared at the ruined village with wide, frightened eyes, suddenly burst into a torrent of jabbering, and threw themselves at his feet. Campbell peered down at them unmoved.
    “Are you children?” Tiano spat at them. “What will your people say when I tell them you are afraid of your own shadows? Have you forgotten whom you serve? The great amo has powerful magic. He will catch Caépora and twist his tail out by the roots. Get up! Vamose!” Tiano’s bare feet lashed forth like darting serpents.
    The paddlers grunted, scrambled upright, pushed the head straps of the packs over their foreheads, and started along the overgrown trail leading away from the village. Fear of the unknown writhed in their vitals; fear of the white amo’s withering scorn drove them on. Praised be that the white amo had remained silent!
    * * *
    Tiano led the way, slashing at the denser growth with his machete. Campbell wiped an oil rag over his rifle, saw that the magazine was full, and followed with Rhuber.
    Rhuber beamed ecstatically at the matted greenness about him. “Ja! There should be new orchids here. But tell me truly, Colin, you do not believe this twiddle of jungle demons, eh? What did you see the last time you were up here?”
    “I saw nothing – but heard plenty.”
    “The tracks?”
    “It rained before morning. I could make nothing from the ground. It left a faint trail of broken shrubs and branches until we came to swamp. Then all sign of it vanished.”
    “But you realized by the signs that you would need a veritable cannon to subdue it, eh? Ah, Colin, you amuse me!” Rhuber chuckled. “When I was younger, I sometimes followed will-o’-the-wisps like this, und I believed there was some substance behind native tales. I used to dream of finding monster serpents, perhaps some living colossus of a past age. Ja, I did; but now I know that such things are—”
    The column halted. The Napo paddlers dropped their loads, stood in an awed huddle about a mark on the ground. Their jaws worked spasmodically without sound. Tiano’s small figure straightened; he gulped.
    “See, amo? The – the drums were right. Caépora passed this way only yesterday.”
    Campbell thrust his paddlers aside, stared down. Rhuber peered beside him at the flattened grass stems. “It looks, Colin, as if an animal had rested here, a tapir, say.”
    “Nothing rested here,” said Campbell. “You’re looking at a footprint. See, the creature had three toes.”
    Rhuber smiled tolerantly. “Colin, my friend, be reasonable. To leave such a spoor, a beast would haff to weigh tons – many tons.”
    “Well,” said Campbell, “and why not? You’re not in the Gobi desert now. This is a living world – and a pretty antedeluvian one.”
    Rhuber sighed. “Right now, my friend, I am more interested in those magenta orchids.”
    Campbell’s mouth quirked slightly. “I fear Tiano stretched a point there. We were quite anxious to get you up here, show you something a bit different. You did not actually believe that orchids of such impossible size and color existed, did you? Bait, Herr Doktor – but purely mythical!”
    Rhuber gave an exasperated bellow, then slapped his thigh. “Colin, you snake in the grass! But wait – the joke may be on you, yet! Ja! You do not know orchids. This is orchid country. I haff never seen better. Just wait!”
    * * *
    They camped that night beneath the great buttressed trunk of a balata tree. Rhuber snored soundly beneath his mosquito netting. The Indians did not string their hammocks. They dozed fitfully with their backs against the tree, facing the fire. Their hands never left the handles of their machetes. Once Tiano crept to Campbell’s hammock.
    “Amo,” he spoke in a troubled whisper, “to-day, I did not tell you, but—”
    “What is it, little monkey?”
    “The Mangeromas – a party of eight of them – are an hour’s journey ahead. They were moving fast and carrying a prisoner. I saw their trail once, to the left of us. My eyes do not lie.”
    “Is Tacala one of them?”
    “The trail was poor, amo, rain had washed it, but I think the chief, Tacala, was their prisoner.”
    Campbell lay awake in concentrated thought. This was a totally unexpected twist he had not counted upon. Tacala was his friend. Through Tacala he had controlled the entire Mangeroma district, the best natural stand of rubber in the vast Putumayo Jungle. But with the old chief a prisoner of his own people, this control was temporarily at an end. The Mangeromas were cannibals. Even the head-hunting Jivaros to the west left them alone. With Tacala out, the Campbell caucheros would gather no more rubber. No man’s life would be safe in the district.
    Eight men going north with a prisoner – following the trail of Caépora. Only an unholy fear could have driven them to this. The problem had but one answer.
    Colin Campbell relaxed and went to sleep. In the morning he would settle the matter in his own peculiar way.
    * * *
    But in the morning a new problem arose. The Napo paddlers would not move. They groveled in the rain, eyes rolling, and clutched at Campbell’s feet.
    “Maggots!” spat Tiano. “Offal of swine! Last night, amo, they heard the howling of the red coto monkeys, the falling of dead limbs from rotten trees. Their thick heads think that Caépora is near!”
    Campbell’s voice came in a crackling snap. “Get up!”
    They stood up, four forlorn, quaking wretches. Another order and they started off with their loads. But they stumbled blindly along like men in a dream, seeing nothing. Campbell knew they would not last long.
    “Little monkey,” said Campbell aside, “I slept soundly last night. The howling of the coto monkeys did not disturb me. What heard you?”
    Tiano spoke guardedly. “There was a roaring in the distance, amo, nor was it the sound a coto makes. And later I felt the ground tremble as if the thunder gods had come down and walked. Caépora is not far away, amo.”
    The rain stopped. The four Napo paddlers dropped their loads, sank in blubbering heaps in their tracks. They would not move, even under the prick of Tiano’s machete.
    “Amo,” one wailed at Campbell, “it is not death we fear. It would be better if you killed us now than to send us ahead. If Caépora meets us, we are doomed. Caépora is a brother of the Didi. He gathers the souls of men; he tortures them through eternity.”
    Rhuber stared at them, eyes wide, puzzled. His face had lost its color.
    Suddenly Campbell spat. “Tiano, tie up this squirming offal of old women! Tie them tightly by their thumbs to a limb.”
    Tiano knotted each pair of thumbs together behind the owner’s back, drew the stout cords over a limb. The Napo men were helpless. They would hang there until some one cut them free.
    Campbell turned away from them. He could not risk having these idiots steal back and make off with the dug-out. And Caépora? Bah! Caépora was but a name. There was living prey ahead that must be dispatched. It was purely a matter of business.
    He threw a duffle bag over his shoulder, took a step forward. He stopped, eyes slitted to points of cold steel. With studied nonchalance he set the bag down. He waited, a look of utter unconcern on his face. Rhuber blinked at him, stopped. Tiano crouched between them, little knots of muscle twitching in his shoulder.
    * * *
    Leaves rustled around them. For a minute nothing happened. Then the leaves parted; eight stalwart, brownskinned figures moved catlike into the open. Rain and sweat glistened upon their bunched sinews. Four carried blow-guns; four carried eight-foot bows that could drive a featherless shaft through a tapir. Campbell had seen it done. Under their black bobbed hair were eyes close-set and evil. Those eyes were furtive now, bloodshot.
    Campbell’s lips curled with carefully calculated scorn. He turned to Tiano; sharp, clacking syllables sprang from his mouth.
    “They have been running, little one. They act like men much afraid.”
    The same clacking sound came from one of the Mangeromas. “Caépora is near. Your magic is no good!”
    Campbell turned slowly. His voice snapped with stern authority. “What underling dares to address me? I deal only with chiefs. Where is Tacala?”
    The man shifted uneasily. He wanted to be on his way. Fear was in his eyes – but it was not fear of the white amo.
    “Tacala – ha! Tacala’s magic fail. He is gone to be a plaything of Caépora. Perhaps Caépora will be satisfied and go away. Now I, Yangari, am chief!”
    Yangari spat at Campbell’s feet. He pounded his great chest, leered again. “Yangari is master here! Who dares to dispute him will be broken into many pieces. Ha! The witch doctor will skewer his hands and make a broth for fighting men. You – you are no longer the amo!”
    For a moment Campbell surveyed him coldly. Yangari was working himself up for murder. With the white amo out of the way, his mastery would be undisputed. Rhuber, Tiano and the rest would be butchered.
    In Campbell’s gun belt was his automatic. One flash of his hand and that automatic would be a spurting engine of death. The Mangeromas would have little chance. But that would gain him nothing. The tribe’s respect would be for the weapon, not for the man who used it.
    His face relaxed. Abruptly he laughed. He laughed loudly and gave Yangari a violent push that sent him reeling back six feet. “He calls himself chief! A fool who runs through the forest like a frightened old woman.” Campbell straightened suddenly. His voice came like the lash of a whip. “Back, all of you! Find Tacala and bring him here. He is your chief.”
    The men fell away, murmuring. Only Yangari held his ground
    Rage twisted Yangari’s evil features. He was losing face; if his men turned against him, his life would be forfeit. In his hand was the emblem of office – a war club studded with jaguar teeth. He swung it.
    * * *
    The swing was never completed. Campbell’s fist caught him on the point of the chin. The big savage grunted, dropped his club and bow, rocked backward under a stinging left. But fear of death brought him forward again, roaring, a bloody froth at his mouth. He was a powerful brute in the prime of life, and he came from a race of fighters. Beside him, Campbell’s lean figure seemed without substance.
    Campbell side-stepped, swung again. All of his weight went behind that swing. It stopped Yangari, made him rock drunkenly; he began to crumple. As he fell, Campbell snatched a bone and feather gorget from his neck. It was the final insult; no warrior would stand for that while he lived – unless blood of vermin flowed in his veins. Like a huge blubbering child whipped into an insane rage, Yangari heaved upright. He sprang at Campbell, kicked, clawed, shrieked as he tried to grasp the other and felt him twist free.
    The Napo paddlers writhed under their trussed thumbs. If Yangari won, they would be taken away, slowly tortured. Rhuber stood motionless, oblivious of danger; he was enjoying the spectacle of his life. Tiano watched unmoved. He already knew the outcome; he had seen it happen a dozen times before. The Mangeromas crouched in a half circle, goggle-eyed, forgetful of the dread menace behind them.
    The white amo’s magic must be greater than ever. He was not afraid of Caépora – and he was laughing at Yangari, taunting him, cutting him down with steel fists that streaked in lightning flashes. Suddenly he seemed to lose interest in the battle. He turned his back, strode casually away as if nothing had happened. Yangari tossed on the ground, moaning for mercy.
    “Amo, shall I kill this evil one?” asked one of the Mangeromas.
    Campbell examined his rifle; he seemed to have forgotten them. In reality, he was making a great effort for control. His breath rasped to his lungs with stabs of pain, his muscles cried out for rest. His right hand was numb. The fight had been brief, but it had taken everything in him – not only to whip Yangari, but to do it in such a way that it would earn the unending respect of those who watched. And now, when he wanted rest, his ears caught faint sounds in the distance, as of branches snapping under a great weight.
    The Mangeromas heard it too, but they stood at attention, waiting for him to speak. The white amo’s magic was powerful. He would protect them from Caépora.
    “Let Yangari go and hide his face in the woods,” Campbell said at last. “I shall not be so lenient with Caépora. If you wish, you may remain behind.”
    For a moment the Mangeromas talked among themselves. Then: “Amo, we are brave men, the greatest fighters of our people. We will follow where you lead.”
    “Good!” said Campbell. He nodded to Tiano and the silent Rhuber, and started off through the dark underbrush. The Mangeromas filed behind them.
    “Such doings!” muttered Rhuber. “I thought for a minute we would be spitted like fresh pork. Ach! what a show! But where are we going, Colin?”
    “I’m taking you to a bigger show,” Campbell said shortly. “Can’t you hear anything?”
    “I hear thunder,” said the Herr Doktor, “und I like it not. My bones tell me a storm is coming. I would prefer to be out of these woods when the wind blows.”
    * * *
    For half an hour the way led gradually upward. Rhuber was right. By the time they reached the top of the slope rain was pelting down through the green canopy; the treetops groaned to a high wind. A dead limb cracked, crashed within ten feet of them with the explosion of a cannon. The rain stopped. There was an electric tenseness in the air.
    The Mangeromas pressed forward. “This way, amo! Open ground near.” They ran down the slope, through a tangle that had suddenly become as black as night. The heavens vomited thunder; under the matted greenness, lightning showed in dim, eerie flickers. Then the wind swept down like a giant hand.
    Campbell felt the great trunks give at his touch, heard a ripping overhead as of heavy artillery in action. In five minutes, he knew, it would be over. But while it lasted—
    He plunged toward gray stabs of light showing ahead.
    Abruptly he broke through the last fringe of jungle, stood gasping in the wind at the edge of a rolling sweep of savanna. He glanced around, saw that the others were with him, then gave his attention to the miracle stretching at his feet. Open country! An old lake bottom, of course; it vanished in the blue-black haze where the wind came. Funny he’d never heard of the place.
    Clumps of tree ferns bent low in the wind. He saw Indians running to one and cut a sagging figure loose – Tacala. The high grass billowed like a stormy sea. Beyond, in the lower reaches, was marsh; a steamy, miasmic place with a strangely unreal quality about it. He knew what was wrong with it instantly. The place was a left-over – something belonging to another age.
    “This – this is forbidden land, amo. Caépora has always dwelt here. Only recently has he been journeying back into the forest. But we are not afraid now. Look!”
    Campbell followed the Indian’s unwavering finger. It pointed at a narrow spur of jungle on his left.
    For a moment he saw nothing. Then he stiffened, feeling his hair rise in sharp prickles at the nape of his neck.
    On the other side of the wind-whipped trees was a great shadow – no, a shape.
    “Rhuber!” he said hoarsely. “For Heaven’s sake, tell me what that is!”
    Rhuber stared. He gave an amazed shriek, started forward.
    “Stop, you fool!” Campbell rasped. “Stop! That thing will—”
    Rhuber lumbered ahead like a man who had lost all reason. Campbell shouted a third time, realized the wind tore the sound from his lips, and ran forward swiftly. Thunder rolled again, crashed through the heavens, shook the earth in a series of cataclysmic explosions. Barbed lightning gouged a new hole in the jungle wall.
    Campbell came to an abrupt halt. Where was Rhuber? The man had vanished. Campbell drew a deep breath, jerked the big rifle to his cheek. No time to think of Rhuber now.
    He braced his feet carefully, trained the sights on the great gray shape moving in Gargantuan slow motion beyond the fringe of trees, barely ninety yards away.
    Campbell’s lips set tight. Wait, hold it a moment. No ineffectual shots at this distance. If it ever started toward him, he might never stop it in time.
    A head raised above the tree ferns. A great, flat, brutish head. Lizard? No – neck too short, body too vast and heavy, coarse hair instead of scales. Short, thick legs like tree trunks; fleshy, tapering tail that dragged for half its length. And it was big – immense!
    * * *
    For an instant Campbell’s mind rebelled. Then he stared at it coldly. Caépora? Bah! Just some hulking, dull-witted beast living forgotten in country that was terra incognita even to the savages; a lonely remnant of the strange herds that once overran the savannas in other days – days not so far past in this region. A herbivorous creature, certainly; dangerous only in its immensity. There was something vaguely familiar about it; Rhuber should recognize it.
    Campbell felt a sudden regret that he should be the agent for its destruction. But Goliath must go.
    He sighted down the barrel, tried to press the trigger. Then he realized his right hand was still numb.
    The thing was looking at him. It moved toward him in stupid curiosity, oblivious of the storm and wind.
    Campbell set his teeth against the pain that flashed up his arm. He willed his hand to contract.
    The rifle jerked violently, its sound deadened in the thunder.
    Goliath stopped. His shoulder twitched as if to shake off a biting insect – a .505 mushroom bullet with a shock velocity of ten tons. He came onward. Campbell snapped another shell into the chamber.
    Goliath broke into a run. Campbell pressed the trigger again. Goliath threw back his head, veered sharply to the right, splintered a tree, and raced down the slope – a mad, gray, slithering mountain of brawn.
    Campbell fired a third time. Abruptly he sprinted downhill; Goliath was slowing, he had reached the edge of the marsh. The ground quaked under his tremendous weight.
    Instantly Campbell adjusted the telescopic sight. He braced his feet, worked his left arm tighter in the strap, and squinted through the glass. A head shot should do it.
    Pain stung to his shoulder as his hand tightened on the trigger. The gun shook with life.
    Goliath lashed about, arched his great head at the black skies; his body reared higher, stiffened, hung poised against the horizon. Suddenly he fell thrashing on his side. Mud and water spewed upward. Gradually that vast shape settled lower. The morass trembled once, then grew level again. Campbell stood there a long time, silent, unaware of the torrent of rain that came now as if intent upon washing out all trace of the king who had once ruled here.
    At last he turned and walked wearily, regretfully away.
    The rain ceased as abruptly as it had come. The clouds swept past and the sun burned again in a white heat. Steam rose from the drenched grass.
    * * *
    Campbell stopped when he saw the solemn procession of figures led by Tiano. The Mangeromas approached him one by one, humbly laid their weapons at his feet. The gray-haired Tacala removed a shell necklace from his throat, placed it upon the pile.
    “We are yours, amo, and all that we have is yours,” spoke Tacala. “And it shall be thus with our children, and our children’s children.”
    Campbell smiled thinly. There was no higher tribute. The region was his, and his control over it would remain undisputed. The business was settled; his caucheros could go back to work. He picked up the shell necklace and replaced it around Tacala’s neck. It signified the white amo’s command that Tacala remain as chief. The white amo’s least desire was law.
    Campbell turned curtly and went to find Rhuber. He found him digging among a mass of broken growth at the edge of the jungle. Rhuber’s round face was dejected. He held up a pulpy tangle of aerial roots.
    “Colin! Never haff I had such damnable luck! When you pointed out that monstrosity to me, I nearly wrenched my legs loose trying to get at it. But the storm beat me. The wind tore the flower away. The bulb is wrecked. Almost I had my hands on it. Ach! what an orchid! Magenta, und as big as—” Rhuber spread his hands in defeat.
    Campbell spat. “You mean to tell me you didn’t see what I saw, that you were monkeying around after some fool plant when—”
    “When what, Colin? Don’t tell me your eyes haff been tricking you again. What is it?”
    Campbell laughed suddenly. “Rhuber, that orchid – and I believe you really found it – that orchid made you miss something that no living man will likely ever see again!”
    “Eh?” Rhuber sat up. Then he was listening with unblinking attention while Campbell tersely described what had happened. For several minutes afterward he was silent.
    Finally: “Colin, in such country as this, almost anything is possible. Ja. You say the thing looked a bit familiar – like something you haff seen before, except for its size? Und it was as big as an elephant, eh?”
    “Three times as big.”
    “Ach! Possibly. Now, Colin, I am a lover of plants – but I am also scientific, coldly so. We scientists do not believe in myths; we even discredit what our eyes see until we haff proven the fact of a thing. In this case, the evidence is no more. But, ah, ahem! – let us indulge in a bit of supposition. Summing up from what you tell me, we haff not a Dinosaur – but a Pleistocene creature, one of the Mammalia. Something quite recent. Of the extinct Brazilian Mammalia, there is only one that would, er – fit the requirements. His bones are fairly common on the savannas. He is the Megatherium, or giant ground sloth.
    “Now, Colin, I am not saying that one could live to-day. The Conquistadors claimed they saw a Megatherium penned up in an Indian inclosure. If so, there could haff been others, und their descendants might exist now. But, Colin, you know what liars the Spanish were. So—” Rhuber spread his hands and shrugged. “The matter is concluded. Let us forget about it.”
    But, as they started through the jungle, Rhuber turned and gazed wistfully back at the savanna, the steaming marsh stretching into the distance.
    “Colin,” he said, “when the rainy season is over, we must come here again. Perhaps we can cross that marsh. I would like to see if there are any, ah, er – interesting orchids in the region.”
    Campbell’s mouth quirked slightly. The Herr Doktor had overlooked the fact that orchids grow in dense timber – in the shade.

    1936
    (Top-Notch, vol. XCIX (99), #1, July, pp.7-17)

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