“What is it?” I said, holding my hand over my mouth and nose.
“Someone’s been dead in there for quite a time,” Ansell said, his face going pale.
Bogle turned green, “I gotta weak stomach,” he wailed, sitting down abruptly on the grass.
“I can’t stand this. I’m going to heave.”
I glared round at Ansell. “She’s not dead, is she?” I said.
“Don’t get excited,” Ansell said, struggling with his own nausea. “You wait here. I’ll go in.” He drew a deep breath and peered timidly into the darkness. His eyes, dazzled by the bright sunlight, could see nothing.
I shoved him aside. “Get out of my way,” I said, and walked into the awful, stinking oven of darkness.
I stood just inside the room, breathing through my mouth, feeling the sweat running from me. At first, I couldn’t see anything, then as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I made out a figure sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall. It was Quintl.
The old Indian was wrapped in a dirty blanket. His head was sunk low on his chest and his hands lay stiffly on the mud floor. I fumbled for a match and with a shaky hand, I scratched a light from the rock wall. Moving forward, I peered down at the Indian, holding the little flame high above my head.
The whole of Quintl’s face moved in putrefaction. Even the hair on his head seethed with putrefying life.