That night, when we made camp, Miguel shot a fine jacú (Penelope cristata), and we had a meal. Soon after a regular downpour came upon us, making us feel most uncomfortable. At about eight o'clock, however, the rain stopped. With a great deal of trouble we were able to light a fire, while the wet leaves of the trees kept on dropping water on us and making a peculiar rustling noise on the carpet of dead foliage on the ground.
By the light of that fire a weird and almost tragic scene took place. Miguel came up to me, and said in a dramatic tone that for the sake of his wife and children I must let him go back, as we were marching to sure death. If I did not let him go back ... here he took his forehead between his hands—"God help me!" he said, and he burst into tears. He said he did not wish for his pay, as he had not fulfilled his contract. Whatever he had on his person he was willing to give me if I would only let him go back. I said I wished him to keep all his possessions, and as he did not wish to go along with me I would certainly let him go back the next morning. He would then also receive the pay according to the time he had been with me. Miguel went back near the fire, where he cried for some time. Accustomed to deal with Brazilians, I perceived that Miguel thought my promises too good to be true.
When leaving the last camp I had improvised for myself a kind of hammock with some straps and a waterproof canvas sheet which I had cut out of one of my tents. I was lying in that hammock thinking, when I saw Miguel get up, and, screening his eyes with his hand, look fixedly my way. I pretended to be asleep.
Miguel—who, by the way, was a Christian—took the dagger from his waist and walking to a large tree scratched a cross upon its bark. Then, sticking the knife with force into the tree, he clasped his hands over its handle, and bent his head over it, muttering some prayers. Twice—perhaps thinking he was being observed—he turned round towards me, and when he did so the expression on his face, lighted by the flickering flame, was really ghastly.
He prayed for some ten minutes, then, with the dagger in his hand, he walked cautiously towards my hammock. He was within 3 metres of me when I jumped up, seizing Filippe's rifle, which I had placed by my side in the hammock. With the butt I struck the Indian a violent blow in the chest.
He stumbled back, dropped his knife and went down on his knees touching my feet with his trembling hands and begging my pardon. Again came more sobs and tears; again more entreaties to be discharged. I got up and confiscated his rifle and all his cartridges, as well as the knife, then sent him to his hammock to sleep. The next morning I would see what I could do.
I saw clearly that it was no use taking on a man like that, who added to my other trials somewhat of a mental strain. The next morning, before sunrise, we were up again. I gave Miguel and his friend their full salaries up to date and sent them back. I handed him his rifle and cartridges, which were his own possessions, but I kept the knife as a memento.
Even when treating men generously in Brazil you had always to beware of treachery. I told Miguel and his friend to walk straight ahead and not turn round. I warned Miguel not to unsling his rifle from his shoulders until he had walked half a league. If he did while still in sight of me I would put a bullet through him. I said it and I meant it.
