Courtenay's brow became black with anger when he understood the
significance of this staggering story.
"It comes to this," he said to Christobal. "The men who got away from
the Kansas in No. 3 life-boat fell into the hands of the savages
early on the day of the ship's arrival here. Suarez slipped his cable
that night, being aware at the time that eleven white captives were
still alive. Yet he said no word, not even when he heard that we had
seen one of the boat's water-casks in a canoe. He, a Christian, bolted
and remained silent, while some poor creature of a woman risked her
life, and ran counter to all her natural instincts, in the endeavor to
save the men of his own race. What sort of mean hound can he be?"
Suarez needed no translation to grasp the purport of Courtenay's words.
He besought the señor captain to have patience with him. He had
escaped from a living tomb, and felt that he would yield up his life
rather than return. Therefore, when he saw how few in number and badly
armed were they on board the ship, he thought it best to remain silent
as to the fate of the boat's crew. In the first place, he fully
expected that they had been killed by the Indians, who would be enraged
by his own disappearance. Secondly, he alone knew how hopeless any
attempt at a rescue must prove. Finally, he wished to spare the
feelings of those who had befriended him; of what avail were useless
mind-torturings regarding the hapless beings in the hands of the
savages?
There was a certain plausibleness in this reasoning which curbed
Courtenay's wrath, though it in no way diminished the disgust which
filled his soul. What quality was there lacking in the Latin races
which rendered them so untrustworthy? His crew had mutinied, de
Poincilit was ready to consign his companions in misfortune to a most
frightful death on the barren island, and here was Suarez hugging to
his breast a ghastly secret which chance alone had brought to light.
He strove hard to repress the contempt which rose in his gorge, as it
was essential that the broken-spirited miner should not be frightened
out of his new-born candor.
"Ask him to ascertain if the Indians believe the white men are still
living?" he said. A fresh series of grunts and clicks elicited the
fact that the smoke-column seen the previous day on Guanaco Hill had
not been created by the tribe. Suarez begged the señor captain to
remember that he had spoken truly when he declared that its meaning was
unknown to him. Probably, from what he now learnt, the girl who threw
in her lot with the sailors had built a fire there.
Courtenay turned on his heel and quitted the cabin. The smell of the
Indians was loathsome, the mere sight of Suarez offensive. For this
discovery had overcast the happiness of his wooing as a thunder-cloud
darkens and blots the smiling life out of a fair valley. There rushed
in on him a hundred chilling thoughts, each gloomier than its
forerunner. Ravens croaked within him; misshapen imps whispered evil
omens; his spirit sat in gloom.