The bones were picked clean—had been stripped and torn asunder days before, and the vulture which had just left had gotten nothing for its belated visit. Among them were remnants of cloth, a belt and a machete, and strands of coarse black hair. A few feet away lay a cheap "trade" gun. Lourenço inspected the weapon and laid it back.
"Did he shoot before he was downed?" asked Knowlton.
"No. The gun is loaded. His death came from above." The bushman ran his eye up the towering tree, then pointed to a large dark object on the ground near by.
"Castanha—Brazil-nut tree," he explained. "That heavy nut fell and smashed the Indian's skull like an egg. Indian, yes. His gun, his shelter, and his hair show that. And"—stooping and pointing at one of the bones—"that bone shows who he was. See, Capitao."
McKay looked down on a leg bone. At some time the leg had been broken and badly set, if set at all. The bone was crooked.
"A short Indian with a crooked leg. Schwandorf's messenger!"
"Si. No man will ever receive the message he bore. He camped here days ago. Now he camps here forever."