energies in other directions. Perimeter guards out of contact with one another were too vulnerable to attack, too easy to eliminate one at a time, so Wareagle’s plan had them patrolling in concentric circles that meant one brave would pass another every hundred yards. Still, this left too many easily breached holes in the perimeter. Hell, just the night before the Spirit of the Dead, as the Tupis called it, had made off with two boys without leaving any trace. Couldn’t dare leave it any opening at all in view of that.
What the braves needed was a good set of walkie-talkies. Lacking that, Blaine would have to make do with what was available. He glanced at the tribal chief, still seated in the center of the valley, a small fire burning before him. McCracken smiled.
Thirty minutes later fourteen fires were going around the rim of the valley. Every three minutes the braves tending them would drop a special ash made from tree bark into the flames to produce a noxious white smoke. The white smoke would serve as the all’s-well signal to the spotters in the valley. A missed interval would spell trouble, and the tribe would know where to concentrate their forces.
Wareagle paced into the black hours of the morning. The jungle was louder then; animal and bird sounds seemed to travel farther in the darkness. Blaine approached him with the pump action propped on his shoulder. Johnny regarded the weapon with apparent disdain.
“Come on, Indian, whatever this Spirit of the Dead turns out to be, it’s not bulletproof.”
“But neither does it fear that bullets can stop it.”
McCracken sniffed the air. Maybe, just maybe, a new scent sifted through. The beginnings of something rancid and spoiled. He shook his imagination away.
“We’ve been through this before.”
“Not the hellfire, Blainey.”
“Why not? Guns didn’t always work against Charlie, either. Waving that big M-16 made you feel invincible until you stepped on a mine or a trap or got hit when one of them popped out of a tunnel.”
“The Black Hearts did what they had to. What we are facing here does what it likes.”
McCracken had to bring up what had forced its way into his mind. “You felt something else back where we found those boys, Indian. You didn’t say anything about it, but I could tell.”
Wareagle smiled. “Perhaps it is you the spirits have chosen to speak through this time.”
“I’d welcome anything that helps get us out of here alive, including the whole truth of what you know.”
“Feel, Blainey.”
“Same thing, Indian.”
Bursts of white smoke filled the air along the rim of the valley as another three-minute interval passed.
“The Spirit of the Dead enjoys what it does,” Wareagle told him softly. “It is propelled by a need to kill like an animal that will starve if it doesn’t hunt. The pain and suffering of its victims are its food.”
“Then we’d better find it before it finds us.”
“The daytime belongs to us.”
“So long as we make it through the night.”
McCracken half expected Wareagle to return from a sweep of the perimeter at dawn with a report that all the Tupi braves had been killed during the final three-minute interval. But the look on the big Indian’s face told him all was well.
“The night passed without incident,” he reported. “No sign of the Spirit of the Dead, Blainey, but evidence of the Green Coats was found to the south of us.”
“Norseman?”
“Still seven men, heavily weighed down by equipment and gear. They could have entered the valley at anytime, but chose not to, almost as if, as if…”
“As if what?”
“They saw the valley as a trap.”
“To catch what, Indian? Seems pretty obvious now they’re after the same thing we are. The question is why.”
“The answer may lie only in following the trail they have left us.”
For the better part of the morning, Johnny followed the trail the soldiers had taken from the north through the jungle. The sticky heat of
What the braves needed was a good set of walkie-talkies. Lacking that, Blaine would have to make do with what was available. He glanced at the tribal chief, still seated in the center of the valley, a small fire burning before him. McCracken smiled.
Thirty minutes later fourteen fires were going around the rim of the valley. Every three minutes the braves tending them would drop a special ash made from tree bark into the flames to produce a noxious white smoke. The white smoke would serve as the all’s-well signal to the spotters in the valley. A missed interval would spell trouble, and the tribe would know where to concentrate their forces.
Wareagle paced into the black hours of the morning. The jungle was louder then; animal and bird sounds seemed to travel farther in the darkness. Blaine approached him with the pump action propped on his shoulder. Johnny regarded the weapon with apparent disdain.
“Come on, Indian, whatever this Spirit of the Dead turns out to be, it’s not bulletproof.”
“But neither does it fear that bullets can stop it.”
McCracken sniffed the air. Maybe, just maybe, a new scent sifted through. The beginnings of something rancid and spoiled. He shook his imagination away.
“We’ve been through this before.”
“Not the hellfire, Blainey.”
“Why not? Guns didn’t always work against Charlie, either. Waving that big M-16 made you feel invincible until you stepped on a mine or a trap or got hit when one of them popped out of a tunnel.”
“The Black Hearts did what they had to. What we are facing here does what it likes.”
McCracken had to bring up what had forced its way into his mind. “You felt something else back where we found those boys, Indian. You didn’t say anything about it, but I could tell.”
Wareagle smiled. “Perhaps it is you the spirits have chosen to speak through this time.”
“I’d welcome anything that helps get us out of here alive, including the whole truth of what you know.”
“Feel, Blainey.”
“Same thing, Indian.”
Bursts of white smoke filled the air along the rim of the valley as another three-minute interval passed.
“The Spirit of the Dead enjoys what it does,” Wareagle told him softly. “It is propelled by a need to kill like an animal that will starve if it doesn’t hunt. The pain and suffering of its victims are its food.”
“Then we’d better find it before it finds us.”
“The daytime belongs to us.”
“So long as we make it through the night.”
McCracken half expected Wareagle to return from a sweep of the perimeter at dawn with a report that all the Tupi braves had been killed during the final three-minute interval. But the look on the big Indian’s face told him all was well.
“The night passed without incident,” he reported. “No sign of the Spirit of the Dead, Blainey, but evidence of the Green Coats was found to the south of us.”
“Norseman?”
“Still seven men, heavily weighed down by equipment and gear. They could have entered the valley at anytime, but chose not to, almost as if, as if…”
“As if what?”
“They saw the valley as a trap.”
“To catch what, Indian? Seems pretty obvious now they’re after the same thing we are. The question is why.”
“The answer may lie only in following the trail they have left us.”
For the better part of the morning, Johnny followed the trail the soldiers had taken from the north through the jungle. The sticky heat of
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