THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER, by Clark Nelson

Originally published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, December 1939.

Buck Mason was going to kill a man—if he himself wasn’t killed first, by the fever. The fever had him not long after he started up the Magdalena River. And now he was weak physically, and his mind, which already was burning deliriously with the obsession for revenge, was nearer the breaking point than ever.

A mad white man; that’s what he was to his metizo, Carnicio, and to his Indian carriers. A mad white man who mumbled and muttered as he stumbled along the narrow trail cut ahead of him by Carnicio’s machete.

The metizo made out from Mason’s feverish rambling that he was going to lull the man who had stolen his woman. Buck Mason, thin features contorted with hate as he read and re-read the old letter he had received back on his job in Haiti, knew he was going to kill the man who had murdered Diane: Don Fernando, rich rubber plantation owner who, as nearly as Mason could get the story from the letter, had taken Diane Murfree at her own offer—to free her father of debt to Fernando. Don Fernando, whose grossness and cruelty had been the death of the frail girl there in the jungle.

Mason had quit his job and embarked for Colombia. Now he was in the interior, up into the Putumayo country close to his goal; and he couldn’t hold out much longer. It was good that he was almost there, for the fever was getting him. The fever…

Mason no longer saw things quite clearly. Ahead of him was his metizo, a good man whom he was paying in good gold. All around him was heavy vegetation, creepers that snaked at his arms and legs; brilliantly plumed birds, bowling monkeys, screaming parrots; giant ferns, bamboos, palms. All this was only a haze to Mason’s fevered brain. Revenge… Revenge…! The dream of it colored all his thoughts as he staggered along, now and again pausing as a violent tremor of a chill shook him.

The guttural voices of the Indian carriers came back of him on the trail. Carnicio turned around during one of Mason’s pauses and said: “Don Fernando’s place is near now. We will reach the river soon, and go downstream perhaps half a mile.”

Mason leaned against a tree and wiped sweat from his face. Cold sweat. He said weakly, “I—must—rest, a moment only, Carnicio. Then we will go.”

While Mason rested, the metizo hacked away at the under brush ahead. Presently the white man staggered on after him. The carriers picked up their burden. Mason again mumbled to himself, thought and envisioned the joy of choking the life from this monster, Don Fernando, whom he had never seen; or of burying a knife slowly in his belly. Of making him suffer as he had made the girl Mason loved suffer…

He paused again to lean against a tree, and before going on, drew the heavy Luger from his holster and examined it, caressing it and thanking it for the work it was going to do for him. He started. Carnicio was running back along the trail beckoning wildly and talking excitedly. Although his words were incoherent Mason ran towards him and followed him stumblingly back over the trail he had just cut through. Tiring of the unwonted exertion he faltered and gasped for breath while he followed with uneven gait the wildly gesticulating metizo. Finally with a last gesture for silence Mason’s number one man lay down flat before some parted bushes and pointed to a cleared grade before them.

Through the darkness of the jungle Mason peered bleary-eyed at a circle of filthy Jungle Indians gesturing and pointing excitedly at something suspended to a tree. Concentrating almost madly Mason saw that the thing hanging there was a nearly nude woman, her lithe body covered with some kind of dark viscous substance. With her arms raised high above her head she was pinioned tightly to the tree, struggling desperately to free herself. Her body turned and twisted pitilessly. Her beautifully molded legs thrashed out convulsively while her face, contorted with pain and helplessness, told mutely of her agony. Now and again she appealed to the Indians to help her but though they answered her they just sat there, hunched up, watching her futile efforts to free herself. Mason fingered his gun and made a move to rise but Carnicio stayed him with a shake of his head. Straining forward, Mason could just catch the gibberish of a dialect unknown to him.

Morbidly fascinated by the scene before him he thought he saw a slight flowing upward of the black pitch covering her body. Intently aware that pitch could not flow upward he perceived with abject horror that what he thought was a slimy substance was actually a continual stream of black ants that would flow up over her soft, rounded body, her face and hair to reach the sap that exuded from a fresh cut in the tree over her head.

With a gasp of horror Mason jumped quickly into the ring of torturers, wildly lashing and swinging his gun butt mercilessly upon astonished Indians, who fled with yells and screams. He turned quickly to the girl. Carnicio had already cut her exhausted body from the tree and was bending over her unconscious form on the ground. Motioning him to get some water from the river nearby, Mason, fighting down weakness and nausea, tried to clear her infested flesh of the horde of ants enveloping her. Crushing them and sweeping them off her soft and tender skin he took the water from Carnicio and washed and bathed her until her tan, supple body shone smoothly. While Mason rid her body of the insects Carnicio interpreted what the girl and the Indians had said. It was not they who had hanged her, to be picked to death by the ants. They had mentioned the name of Don Fernando, had talked of the Wicked One, who would torture them cruelly and fiendishly if they interfered with the girl left to die. They had argued among themselves as to the best course of action and fear decided them to leave her alone.

Mason cursed Don Fernando again, swore vengeance on the man who had killed Diane, who now tortured helpless girls. Looking down he saw that the woman was returning to consciousness. With a slight stiffening of her olive colored body and a fluttering of her eyelids she lay for a moment as though gathering her senses. Her eyes fixed on Mason, she muttered incoherently. He bent over and addressed her slowly in Spanish:

“Everything is all right now, Señorita. Don’t worry. Only tell me, was it Don Fernando who left you here to die?”

“The Wicked One!” she sobbed. Her eyes flashed hatred. “It was the Wicked One!” Carnicio watched her avidly but she seemed unaware that the enticing single garment revealed her loveliness. She got to her feet, clutched Mason’s hands fervently. “You are going there? You see the Wicked One?”

“Si!”

The girl’s fingers tightened on his wrist. “When you get to the casa look for Alvarado. Tell him I am safe and I have said nothing. Tell him to keep his mouth sealed. He must say nothing.”

He tried vainly to learn more of her story, but she shook her head vigorously. “No, no. I must go now.”

Mason protested. “You are weak and ill. I will take you to Don Fernando’s house with me. You will watch as I make him suffer as he made you suffer.”

Again she shook her head, fearfully, “I cannot! If only you will give Alvarado the message… You will tell him what Mala told you?”

He nodded and without further protest watched her disappear into the bushes. For now a drugging lethargy seemed to settle over his tired body. Fighting an intense feeling of vertigo he ordered Carnicio back to the Indian carriers. “I’ll take the trail alone. You can follow me later.”

He started off along the river’s edge, trying to overcome by sheer mental will the feverish burning of his eyes and the continual banging noises in his head. He had to fight this out alone. He pictured to himself how he would crush his hated enemy to death. With a delirious smile on his face he had his hands wound tightly around the neck of the fat jungle king, was pressing and twisting unmercifully the sweating, dirty flesh until the neck finally cracked. He stared at his hands, clenched his fingers. His mind raving, he seemed oblivious of the physical torture of his body as he followed the stream’s bank. He paid no attention to the thick vegetation dragging at him, or the small trees pulling and tearing at his clothes and ripping his flesh. He only knew that he was nearing the trail’s end and that soon he would have vengeance not only for the woman dearest to his heart but also for the Indian girl he had just saved.

Suddenly he was conscious that he had entered a huge clearing. Directly in the center was a tremendous structure, with but few windows, resembling a square warehouse. He was struck by the incongruity of it in the middle of the jungle. To the side of this huge structure was a similar building smaller in size which was obviously used to store rubber.

It was only now as he staggered toward the building that he realized how weak he was. Cursing the fever, he brushed his forehead with his shirtsleeve. To his burning eyes he turned his head from the burning glare of the sun and rubbed his eyes vigorously as though to wipe away a trick of delirium. On one side of the clearing a writhing Indian lay face downward, tied securely by the hands to some heavy wooden stocks. A horde of flies buzzed around his writhing body and hovered about the stream of blood oozing from the open wounds all over his back and legs.

Mason’s mind recoiled at this new horror before him. While he stared, a short, broad-shouldered black stepped out of the door of the smaller store-house. Tremendous muscles were flexed and shining black skin was exposed to the noon-day sun as he walked over to the writhing Indian on the ground. His only garment was a pair of muddy, light trousers and he held in his hand a heavy leather whip. As he came nearer Mason saw his face. White teeth flashed between thick lips. The nose was wide and flat. Mason thought that he had never seen such a cruel face.

He bent over the securely tied figure. The Indian tried to twist away, but could not budge the stocks. His lips twisted in pleas. The black gave him a heavy prodding with his foot and spat on him derisively. He lashed out with the heavy whip on the already mutilated back of the Indian.

Mason watched the proceedings, horror-struck. Could this also be an example of Don Fernando’s cruelty?

The fever had possessed Mason’s brain and as he sprang from the bushes he was screaming curses. The black turned to run, then changed his mind and held his ground. A knife flashed in his hand. He advanced to meet Mason, who, about ten feet away, jerked the Luger from its holster. A look of fear crossed the negro’s face. He wheeled and ran for cover.

Mason’s gun crashed, the black tumbled to the ground, a bullet through his spine.

With a mad, triumphant cry he dashed over to the black’s body. His maddened mind cried for revenge. He screamed: “Don Fernando! Don Fernando! Come out, murderer! Come out and fight! Come out so I can avenge Diane!”

His hat fell to the ground and he stood there like a young god, blonde hair glistening in the sun, swearing vengeance on his unseen enemy.

Inside the smaller house watching the gruesome scene were frightened servants, huddled together, staring wide-eyed at the mad antics of the tall, half-crazed American. They saw him dance madly around the negro he had just slain. They saw him go utterly berserk in a mad frenzy of curses, tears, sworn vengeance and prayers. Inside the house, there was another onlooker—one who did not watch the scene with fear, but with calm contemplation and speculation. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes stared at Mason steadily as she wondered who he was.

Presently his wildness seemed to be leaving him; he seemed to be calming down.

Lighting a cigarette, she walked out of the house and approached him slowly, her swinging stride greatly enhanced by her close-fitting riding habit.

Mason stepped back a few paces, his confused mind taking in the figure of the slim, well-formed girl before him. Her white shirt was opened flatteringly at her neck so he could see her soft, smooth skin, and she walked with a deliberate enticing stride. Then he noticed her eyes. Narrow, gleaming dark eyes that held him fascinated. A small aquiline nose, a surly red mouth. As he watched her approaching he saw her enveloped in a haze. His distorted mind seemed to be failing him completely. As she stopped a few paces from him his eyes did not react to the miniature gun she was pointing towards him from under her light coat. All he knew was that he wanted his enemy to come out and meet him. He couldn’t waste his time with a woman.

Trying to wave her aside he began his mad chant again: “Come out, come out, Don Fernando. You’re yellow. You’re trying to put me off by sending out a woman. You’re yellow, yellow, yellow.” Trying to push her out of his way, he half fell against her. Supporting him she said kindly: “You’re not well, my friend. Come in the house with me where it isn’t so warm. You’re ranting like a madman.”

As he still yelled frantically for Don Fernando to come out, she whispered gently: “You cannot see Don Fernando. He isn’t here any more. He is dead. He died a few weeks ago.”

Her soft words finally penetrated his brain. Don Fernando dead? His enemy dead? No, no, it couldn’t be! As he stood there staring, growing more light-headed. His knees were bending under him. With his last remaining strength he protested that it couldn’t be so. Oh, no, he was going to bash Don Fernando’s brains in. Ha, ha! Yes, he himself was going to kill the fiend. Laughing hysterically, he collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

For ten days Mason was a victim of burning fever. He tossed and talked and dreamed incessantly. Sometimes in his conscious moments he, imagined that he was being carefully nursed by Diane, that he could feel her cooling hands on his burning forehead, that she was whispering soft words of comfort to him, then he remembered that she had died and he would jump up knowing that he must kill Don Fernando immediately…and suddenly remembering that he could never have that pleasure. His fevered brain would then sink into unconsciousness and he would rave and turn and twist for hours.

Once thinking these thoughts he reached out to grasp the hands of his soothing Diane but looking up, dazed, he met the almond-shaped eyes of someone whom he did not know. She placed her arms around him tenderly and he could feel the rounded curves of her body pressed against his. Soothing words were whispered in his ears. In her arms he felt happy and peaceful.

As his fever diminished, he tried to remember where he was, and little by little, he pieced together the events of the weeks before his breakdown.

His Indian carriers and Carnicio he had left in the jungle. He remembered following the river bank and watching through the underbrush the torture of the Indian girl. He remembered her message—her message to Alvarado. He was to tell him that she had said nothing. With crystal clarity the later events stood out in his mind now. His stumbling into the clearing…and suddenly he remembered that he had shot the black man wielding the whip.

Rising suddenly, he attempted to get out of bed. He must get a hold of Carnicio and his carriers. He must get away from here. He had killed a man. Staggering out of the bed he fell with a crash. The door opened. A dark eyed girl walked into the room, helped him up. Muttering half to himself he told her the whole story, told her why he had to get away. Didn’t she realize he had killed a man?

With her arm around him and the fragrance of her soft body close to him she pushed him gently back to his bed. Her calm, quiet, tender manner was like a sedative and he became very calm under her soothing ministrations.

Looking at him inscrutably she said: “Listen, my dear, you were a very, very sick man. Your fever gives you delusions. I was in the clearing when you came in and there was no one around but you and me. If you claim you saw an Indian being tortured and that you killed a negro to save him it was only something that took place in your own mind. Now will you forget about it and be quiet?” Pillowing his head on her shoulder he felt a wave of relief coming over him. He said: “Who are you?”

“Rosita. Now are you going to promise me that you will be quiet so that you will drive those terrible dreams out of your head? Just remember that I will always be right here and that nothing can harm you.”

In his weakness he wanted nothing more than rest, and slept almost continually. Once he seemed to remember the curdling screams of the Indian being beaten by the huge black.

Mason awoke with a start, surprised to find Rosita sitting next to his bed. She was dressed in white shorts that contrasted with her tanned, beautifully shaped legs. Her blouse was stiffly starched over her rounded bosom. Eyes shining, she leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

She whispered: “I have a surprise for you.” She clapped her hands and Carnicio entered the room. He stood by the door shyly, asked Mason how he was feeling. Rosita continued beside Mason, looking steadily at Mason’s number one man. Carnicio made small conversation, mentioned that the carriers had left for their own country. When did the master think he would be able to continue on his way? Finally Carnicio left as quietly as he had come.

Mason turned to the woman. “You know why I came here?”

“I do know,” she answered quietly, “you told me about it continually in your fever. The young woman you came to find is dead. She died in Iquitos and Don Fernando died a month later—a heartbroken man. That’s the whole story, mi amigo, so now your quest is ended. Were you very fond of her?”

He turned away from her slowly, and closed his eyes in grief. As in a dream he felt her bend over him and place her cool, soft hands on his head and press her body to him in a close embrace. Presently he slept like a worn-out child.

He awakened to a rough hand shaking his shoulder vigorously. Opening his eyes he saw Carnicio motioning him to silence. With a start he sat up in bed, the moonlight shining in his room.

“You must dress immediately, my master. We must leave at once before the Wicked One does any more harm.”

“What do you mean—leave tonight? Where can we go…and why?”

Carnicio whispered. “If Don Fernando was bad, she is worse, a fiend! I have talked with the Indians! She was Don Fernando’s mistress before he went to New York and came back with his pale bride. It was this one that killed the American woman, killed her with her hare bands while Don Fernando looked on. It was this one that killed Don Fernando himself so that she could take over this plantation. She is a fiend, I tell you, the devil’s daughter. She enslaved the poor Indians so that they gather the rubber and are not paid. She tortures them, beats them. She is a collector of heads, a killer!”

Mason laughed uneasily. “But she nursed me! If all that was true, she’d be afraid of me. She’d be afraid to—”

“Ssssh! Listen, master. Remember the girl Mala, the one we found tied to the tree with the ants covering her body?”

Mason nodded stiffly. That much at least was no dream. Carnicio went on. “She had a brother, Alvarado. You saw him too. Remember she gave you a message for him?”

Again Mason nodded. It was becoming clearer now. His brow was creased.

“You couldn’t deliver the message, señor, because Alvarado died in the cebos, in the stocks, whipped to death by this devil’s negro whipmaster!”

Then it was no dream! He really had killed the negro. His brain whirled.

Carnicio went on. “Mala and Alvarado made the mistake of bringing gold here to sell. The woman, Rosita, is certain that they have found one of the lost Incas mines. She tortured them both to make them reveal the source of their gold. Alvarado died.”

“And the girl, Mala?”

“She lives, master, and only I know where she is. Rosita would like very much to find her. Get up, master and dress. We must get away from here. Rosita has learned through her Indians that you befriended Mala in the jungle. She thinks Mala has told you where the mine is. She wants you here only to find out. She is mad, a monster, relentless where gold is concerned.”

Rage made Mason tremble. If this were true—if all that Carnicio said was true—

“Where are you going, master? Your clothes! Come back!”

But Mason did not hear him. He thrust Carnicio aside, vanished through the door. Like one who knows the way well, he found Rosita bedroom. He opened the door softly, saw the lithe figure of the woman, sprawled across the bed. The white gown was rumpled about her knees, the bodice half off her shoulders, disclosing dimly the rounded contours of her bosom.

“Diane, Diane!” he groaned, and leaned forward to grasp Rosita’s throat. But before his fingers sank into soft flesh, her heels flashed up. Her legs were like steel. He reeled across the room. His head banged against the wall, he sank unconscious to the floor.

* * * *

Miraculously his own clothes, clean and ironed, were beside his own bed where he awakened the next morning. Everything was there—with two exceptions. His money belt and his gun. But when Rosita came in with his morning breakfast, smiling as if nothing had happened, she did not mention the affair of the night before…at first. Sullenly he took his food, gazed at the plate.

Presently she said: “Did I hurt you?” He shook his head, ashamed of his own weakness. “Why did you want to kill me, amigo?”

“You know why. Carnicio came to me last night, told me—”

“Carnicio?” She felt his head with her cool palm. “You must have dreamed again! Ah, the fever! Poor sick one! Carnicio left for Iquitos yesterday morning after seeing you. He asked me to tell you that he must return to his people, that they need him.”

His brow clouded. Could he have dreamed in the heat of his intermittent fever, dreamed that Carnicio had visited him with the wild tale? He looked at the demure woman who sat beside him, her eyes soft, her body alluring in a negligee calculated to set mad blood racing in his veins. She couldn’t be the fiend that Carnicio pictured her. Still—

“I, too, will be leaving before long,” he said stiffly.

To his great surprise she began to cry. Tears streamed down her face. Her breast quivered. He questioned her. Her only answer was: “You don’t remember. You don’t remember?”

Vaguely he shook his aching head.

“You promised to stay,” she sobbed. “You held me in your arms, you caressed me, you were to me what no man has been before! And you promised to stay.”

He started to mumble something, his face red. She sprang to her feet, walked excitedly about the room. “Do not think of leaving! This place is mine, this plantation and its riches. I give it to you, my lover! We will be as king and queen here among the savages. We will—”

He shook his head, still bewildered.

Her belt loosened. The negligee slipped from her shoulders, half revealing the long lines of her brown body. “You promised,” she said softly.

Fascinated, he watched her move toward him, knew in his heart that he was lost. She pulled his unwilling head to hers for a throbbing kiss. Then all other thoughts fled from him…

* * * *

The next two months were a combination of heaven and hell. Rosita was a Jekyll and Hyde, two distinct personalities within the lithe brown body. Times when she was in his arms, when her heart beat against his and he drained the sweetness from her mouth, she was woman incarnate; all the seductiveness of the ages was within her.

At other times she was a different woman. She came to be sure of him, sure that he was enmeshed by her beauty. So she grew careless. He saw the long strings of Indians come in, bearing their back-breaking loads of crude rubber, Jamaica Negroes serving as overseers, guns at their hips, whips in their hands. He saw the Indians, cowed and beaten in the stocks, and could do nothing for them. Only once did he protest to the woman whose orders caused these terrible things.

She shrugged, raised her glass and drank deeply before answering, “I know how to treat them; you do not. Leave the business end to me. Once the steamer comes and you see the price we get for the rubber you will say that I am right.

“Why pay the dogs? Put the fear of God into them, make them work for nothing. I feed them at least.”

That afternoon had been too much for him, with a swarthy negro flogging three Indians for a slight offense. Mason had never fully recovered mentally from his illness. Now he looked at the woman with clenched fists, tight lips.

“You’ll stop these inhumanities, or I’ll leave you.”

She laughed in his face. “And the minute you try to leave me I send a man to Iquitos to bring the authorities to hunt you down in the jungle like a dog. Why? For murder, for the killing of my overseer the first day you came.”

His face blanched. “But you said it was a dream.”

She laughed at him again. “Perhaps I told you many things that were not true, beloved. I am only a woman. I was very determined to keep you here. After all, you’re the only white man for miles.” Dazed, unable to know what to believe and what not to believe, he lingered on. He lost his will power, his self-respect. He did not know if he was sane or mad and did not care! Days were torture, nights were heaven.

During the day he took to wandering through the nearby forests, through the animal trails, through the man-made paths. Not far from the house was a small creek with steep banks, almost entirely dried up during this season of the year. He crossed it by running down the bank, leaping the narrow strip of water, and running up the far bank at full speed.

He crashed through the bushes on the far side and stopped in amazement. He had run right into the midst of a squatting circle of Jivaros who listened to the harangue of a familiar figure. The Indians haunched down in their skirts of native cloth, black and white streaks painted on their faces and chests, tufts of colored feathers in their ears and nostrils. At Mason’s unexpected appearance they leaped to their feet. One swung a machete and it was arrested in midair only by the sudden voice of the woman who had been haranguing them.

The woman was Mala.

At her command the Indians backed away. She spoke softly to a brooding Mason.

At last he said: “I can’t do it, Mala, I’d never get away from her. She may be all that you say, murderess, torturer, thief, but she has me.”

The Indian girl leaned closer, said: “The Indians are ripe for revenge. If they kill, the authorities come, burn their villages, their women and children. You can do it, you are a man of strength and will! She has made a mouse of you, a crawling insect. Don’t you want revenge?”

He shook his head wearily, uncertainly.

She said, “You came in search of a white woman, amigo? A white woman that did not die in Iquitos but was murdered here! Your man Carnicio she killed, also. My brother, Alvarado; her master Don Fernando. She deserves death!”

Still he shook his head, played with the ragged mustache on his upper lip.

She disappeared to return in a moment. Before him she laid three hide hags, each larger than his two fists.

“That is gold,” she said softly. “Do as I ask and it’s yours. You shall have a canoe and paddlers to get you out of the country.”

Still he refused to commit himself, went back to the house, wondering vaguely if he should warn Rosita.

* * * *

He slept alone that night, was awakened by someone whispering his name softly. He sat bolt upright, blinded as a brown hand lit a match, applied it to a sputtering candle. It was Mala. She said: “Mason, awake. Come with me and I will show you your duty.”

Like a man in a dream he got to his feet, got into his clothes with her help. He blubbered silently as she led him down the hallway. He was afraid of this woman, but more afraid of the woman she was taking him to.

But it was not to Rosita’s quarters she led him. It was to an immense barn-like room in the left wing, a room he had never been in before. He stared about at the trophies, the devil masks, the wizard’s charms. “This,” whispered Mala, “is hers. She kept these things to remind her of past triumphs. Look at the spears.”

Against one wall leaned four spears, each tufted with brilliant feathers decorated with gaudy paints. From each dangled a dark object hardly larger than an orange. Mala pushed him closer, turned one of the objects toward him.

Mason, the weakling, gasped. It was a shrunken head! A head such as the Jivaro’s could make from the human head for a foe. “That,” said Mala calmly, “is your man, Carnicio.”

Mason recoiled. Shrunken, yes, but perfect in every line and detail, the head of Carnicio twirled and twisted on the end of a string attached to a Jivaro spear!

“And this,” said Mala, “is—”

But there was no need to say. The long blonde hair, the once red lips, the proudly arched nose. Diane. So Diane did not die in Iquitos. She died here and this woman, this Rosita, had taken her head to gloat over. Somehow, still blubbering, Carson reached the gruesome trophy, took it in his hands and tore it from the spear. He was kissing the shriveled monstrosity with slobbering lips when the new voice broke in.

“Ah, Mala, who pries into my private things! And Mason, my beloved!”

Rosita stood in the doorway, clad in the same transparent negligee. A slender machete gleamed in her hand. Suddenly she leaped forward. The Indian girl caught her wrist, tripped her. They went down in a bevy of flailing legs, writhing brown bodies, fighting for possession of the knife that meant life or death.

Mason gibbered against the wall, shrieking, crying, laughing, while the negligee ripped to tatters, while Mala’s short skirt tore and gave, while two almost naked women tumbled and contorted on the floor at his feet.

The guttering candle cast weird shadows. The knife flicked. Mala gasped, fought the harder. But presently before Mason’s dazed eyes he saw Rosita on her feet, her eyes mad, her lips curled, her breast flattened as she raised her arms to administer the coup de grace.

Only then was he conscious of the spear he held in his right hand.

She was the spirit of destruction, the goddess of murder, the high priestess of torture. His spear thrust went straight and true, pierced her magnificent body. The machete dropped to the floor. She slipped to her knees, both hands tugging vainly at the embedded spear.

Mason giggled against the wall again while Mala fought her way to her feet gasping for breath.

The smile she turned on Mason was radiant. The woman on the floor twitched and lay still.

* * * *

It was only after Mala put Mason in the mahogany dugout that he knew what he still held in his left hand. It was the shrunken head of the woman he had loved. His Diane.

Two Indians paddled into the sluggish stream silently. The only sound in the jungle was the mad laughing of Mason.

For two long weeks they fought the streams, paddled down the Putomayo to the Amazon, up the Amazon toward Iquitos. On the fifteenth day a messenger overtook them in a faster canoe.

The three Indians whispered together for long moments with fearful glances toward the wreck that once had been Buck Mason. His beard was matted, his hair dirty and tangled, his eyes bloodshot. For days he had scarcely eaten, scarcely drunk.

The Indian from Putomayo gave him a leaf-wrapped package, explained that the woman Mala had sent it. Then he disappeared swiftly the way he had come.

Mason opened the package with fumbling fingers and his laughter ran out madder than ever, wildly, more demented.

“I knew I’d never get away from her,” he screamed, and fell on his face in the bottom of the canoe.

The frightened Indians left him on a trail that led into the city, paddled back against the current silently with many backward glances over their shoulders. The last thing they heard was his mad shrieking.

A little later a goatherd found him, ran into Iquitos and brought the authorities. He lay in the middle of the trail, motionless, staring straight up into the sun with blinded eyes.

At his feet lay three buckskin bags, each filled with gold.

In each hand death-stricken fingers gripped an object the size of an orange. The police pried those fingers loose.

“Mother of God,” cried one, crossing himself.

Each dead hand held a head, the head of a woman. One was blonde with long hair that still gleamed in the sunlight. The other was dark, with hair like a raven’s wing, and crooked lips that still quirked in a sneering smile.