"A few weeks later another small maloca several miles from here was attacked at night while two men of Monitaya were there, having stayed out too late on a hunting trip and taken refuge with their neighbors until day. Both these men were hit and crippled by bullets in the wild shooting that opened the attack. One was struck in the knee, the other in the lower part of the back. But both caught a glimpse of the leader's face and saw that he was the black-bearded man himself.
"So you see, Capitao, why we have been near death. Suba and Monitaya both thought you were the man. We were lucky to escape alive from Suba, and still more lucky that hero were two men who knew the face of the blackbeard."
"Schwandorf!" barked McKay.
"Yes, Capitao, it must be the German—"
"I know it's Schwandorf! And I know his game! He's a slaver!"
"A slaver?"
"That's it. Knew I'd seen that sneak before. He worked the same game in British Guiana eight years ago on a small scale. Had a gang of tough bush niggers from over in Dutch Guiana to do his dirty work. Stole Macusi girls—they're the best-looking Indians in B. G.—and sold them like cattle to gold miners. Cleaned up quite a pot before the English got on to him, but had to get out of the country on the hot foot—didn't have time to take his gold with him. His name wasn't Schwandorf over there, and he had no beard; he was thinner, too, and posed as a Russian; but he's the man. Must have made his get-away by the back door—down the Branco to the Amazon. Now he's running Mayoruna girls into Peru. He could sell them to rubber men or miners and make good money, eh, Lourenço?"
"Si."
"Sure. And that's why he wanted to kill off his Peruvians—they knew too much; probably were trying to bleed him for hush money. He must have a regular slave route and a gang of border cutthroats to do his raiding—men who don't go downriver. Murderer, slaver—wonder how many other crimes are on his soul."
"Them two are enough," growled Tim. "And he 'ain't got no soul."