To Anton it was obvious that the man would present a problem, since the hunter had not planned to return to Santa Isabel for more than a week, but it was equally obvious that the wounded man would require better care than he was able to furnish from the small medical supplies he carried with him. Not that Santa Isabel boasted anything resembling a hospital or even a doctor, but it did have several Indian women, among them his own wife, who were quite adept at herbs. And the contents of Anton’s limited medical case had to last him until he took his next batch of skins downriver for sale four months hence.
He had therefore sprinkled the wound with a minimal calculated amount of his precious penicillin powder, padded it heavily with palm leaves, and wrapped it tightly with his spare shirt. This accomplished, he had handed his pack and rifle to one of the carriers and gently raised the unconscious man. Eighteen kilometers through the jungle was no easy task when unencumbered; with the need to avoid jarring the wounded man, it promised to be a nightmare. Still, there was little else to do, and the quicker the better. It would be a shame to arrive in the village and find his burden dead.
In Santa Isabel, on his own bed, in his own hut — and with as many of the villagers who could crowd their faces in at the door as witnesses — Anton prepared for the necessary operation. First, he had spoon-fed the feverish man as much pinga as he felt safe, and then he had injected him with one of his two morphine ampules. As he did so, he made a mental note to include a bottle of ether in his next list of supplies. Then, using a sterilized skinning knife, he had managed to remove the bullet from the shattered shoulder bone.
Fortunately, the arteries of man and wild animal bear close relationship to each other, and Anton was quite knowledgeable of the anatomy of animals. A final application of penicillin powder nearly depleted his supply but left him with the hope that no incurable infection might result. This accomplished, he had turned his patient over to his wife and the other two women who had assisted at the operation by holding the patient still under the knife. Anton had done all he could, and he was sure that his wife could handle the recuperative period as well as, if not better than, he could himself. He had therefore gathered his carriers once again from their huts, shouldered his supplies and guns, and returned to the jungle.
That had been a week ago, and Anton, curious about the fate of the man, had come back to Santa Isabel, cutting short his usual tour once again. He dropped his pack at the doorway and pushed into the darkened room, waiting until his eyesight became accustomed to the gloom, and then moved forward, smiling. It was pleasant to know that neither his efforts nor his drugs had been wasted; his patient was clear-eyed, staring up at him evenly. At sight of Anton, his wife rose silently from the chair at bedside, where she had been waving away flies, and moved to the doorway, retrieving the pack, taking it in the direction of the river and the washing rocks there. The large blond hunter sank down on the vacated chair, smiling proudly at the man on the bed, pleased to find him still alive.
“E como vai o senhor?”
The injured man attempted to sit up and winced in pain. Anton bent forward, easing the other to a comfortable sitting position, and then sat back again. The man frowned at him.
“Do you speak English?” There was a note of frustration in his voice. “Is there anyone around who speaks English?”
Anton understood enough, more from the tone than from the words. He shook his head and then tried his native Slavic tongue. It was instantly apparent that this was equally useless; he attempted his last alternative, French. “M’sieu parlez-vous français?”
A tremendous relief showed in the other’s face as he replied in the same language. “Thank God for parents who were old-fashioned enough to think all gentlemen should speak fluent French as a second language! And I always thought the only time I’d ever get to use it would be to impress waiters!” He smiled at the blond man facing him. “My God, it’s good to be able to communicate! I’m loaded with questions. I’ve been lying here going mad since I woke up nearly a week ago. What happened? And where am I?”
“You’re in Santa Isabel de Água Branca.” Anton raised his broad shoulders. “What happened? We found you near the bridge, shot.” He studied the other’s face, carefully. “Were you responsible for destroying the bridge? Or rather, were you one of those responsible?”
“The bridge? Is it destroyed?” The man on the bed seemed to be trying to fit this into the entire confusing situation and then shook his head. “Why?”
“Why was it destroyed? Or why am I asking?” Anton hesitated a moment and then changed the subject. “We were camped in a ravine, a kilometer or less upriver from the bridge; the cougar comes there to drink at this time of year.” He noticed the questioning look and explained. “I’m a professional hunter, and while the cougar isn’t the best skin, in Uruguay and Argentina there’s a certain market.” He seemed to feel he was drifting from the subject. “In any event, we heard the explosion, and when it was light, about an hour later, we climbed up to investigate. And found you, purely by accident.” He studied the man on the bed curiously. “How did you come to be shot? We didn’t find your gear or any gun—”
“I—” It suddenly occurred to the man on the bed that he was speaking with his benefactor. “I haven’t even thanked you yet for saving my life.”
Anton smiled and waved a thick finger in a typical Brazilian negative. “There’s no call for thanks. Anyone here in the interior would have done the same. Here we few humans are forced to rely on each other to a great extent. We have a common enemy — the jungle — which, oddly enough, is also our common friend.” His eyes remained steady on the other’s face; his tone indicated more polite interest than curiosity. “You, however, seem to have had an enemy that was quite human, and certainly no friend. Unless it was an accident?”
The young-looking freckled face hardened; his voice became harsh.
“It was no accident! Admittedly I was naive, but—” He stopped abruptly and then put the thought aside in favor of a more important one. He looked about the room, almost as if seeking some means of escape, and then back to the man beside him. “I have to get out of here. Or at least get a message out. I don’t suppose there’s any telephone? Or telegraph?”
Anton smiled gently. “Telephone? Telegraph? Here in Santa Isabel?” He chuckled, not at the discomfiture of his guest, but at the thought. “You haven’t been outside this room yet, so you don’t realize the extent — or lack of extent — of our village. Actually, it wasn’t even a village until I came here. I named it, and I’m rather proud of that. Until they started to build the bridge, and a few of the men came here to look over a possible road site, I’m sure nobody ever heard of us. We’re not on any map, and I doubt if Brasília even knows we exist. On the other hand,” he added soberly, as if wanting to be fair, “we also pay no taxes.”
The patient’s face had fallen. “Then where’s the nearest place with a telegraph line?”
Anton frowned in thought a moment, considering. He looked up. “Pôrto Itapurá, I should imagine.”
“And how far is that?”
“Well, from here to the Rio Paraná, two days by canoe in good weather. Then another three or four days — maybe five — again depending on the weather. If you’re lucky, of course, you may run into a river steamer heading down toward Buenos Aires. You wouldn’t actually save much time that way — most of them tie up for the night — but you’d certainly save a lot of muscle.” One large hand came up abruptly. “By you, I don’t mean you. You’re in no shape to travel. Not for at least another week, I should judge.”