DAWN

In the northwest of Brazil, almost at the point where its borders with Peru and Colombia converge, black, heavy clouds prematurely blocked the setting sun. Large raindrops rustled in the thicket of the Amazonian jungle[1]. The monotonous singing of countless cicadas[2] stopped as if on command. The noisy conversations of the parrots stopped. The treetops shook in the harsh wind. The vines that hung from the trees like festoons began to tremble.

In the rubber-gathering camp[3], located near the banks of the Putumayo River[4], there was a flurry of activity. The camp's inhabitants were hastily securing their tents and hiding their household items to prevent any potential damage caused by the approaching storm.

The commotion in the camp and the sound of the rain pouring down on the dry leaves of the tent's roof awakened a slender young man who was sleeping on a wooden cot. He struggled to sit up, leaning on his elbow. The room was dark, so he peered out through the wire-mesh door, but it was also dark outside. John Nixon, the young man's name, pushed aside the mosquito netting that hung around the cot and stood up. Staggering, he walked to the door and opened the screen. He looked first toward the barrack where the rubber was stored. The barrack's gate was locked. The half-naked Indians were busy in silence, tending to the tents where their wives and children had taken refuge from the storm.

— Aukoni! John Nixon called in a slightly hoarse voice.

— Sin senor![5] the Indian answered, coming to the threshold of the hut.

"Where are the capangos?"[6] asked Nixon.

"They're having dinner in their barracks," the Indian replied. Nixon's brow furrowed. Hired overseers were only useful when you were standing over them with a whip. After a moment of silence, Nixon asked:

"Have all the seringeros[7] returned from the jungle? A storm is brewing!"

"Everyone has returned, the rubber is packed in the warehouse,— replied Auconi, the leader of a group of Syubeo Indians who collected rubber latex[8] for the Nixon Rio Puto Mayo company[9].

— Have you already distributed food rations?

—Sin, senor, and now I will order dinner for you," Auconi replied.

—To hell with dinner! Nixon flared up. March out!

Not a muscle twitched on the Indian's stony-faced expression. He only cast a searching glance at his chief. He was convinced that the white man had been drinking again. After a brief reflection, the Indian said:

— Señor Wilson is gone, the bad men are near, do not drink more...

But the white man did not hear the words that were addressed to him, because at that moment a bright lightning flashed across the black sky, and a powerful thunderclap drowned out the Indian's kind words. A whirlwind blew through the jungle trees, causing leaves and branches to fall from their tops. Soon, the storm was raging at full force. He groped his way to a wooden box that served as a table in the shabby hut. He lit the wick of a kerosene lamp. Night butterflies fluttered out of the corners of the room and circled around the flame. One of them touched John's face. He shuddered in disgust. He was repulsed by the insects and caterpillars that inhabited the humid, tropical forest. Nixon found it difficult to adapt to the Amazonian jungle, which seemed quiet and lifeless during the day but came alive with thousands of mysterious voices at night. Who could tell the difference between human voices and the moans and howls of animals? Perhaps it was the red-skinned, wild hunters of human heads, or even worse, the white hunters of slaves, calling out to each other in preparation for an attack. In addition, the frequent rains signaled the approaching winter, a time of heavy rainfall that turned the jungle into a swampy maze of lakes and marshes. Then, apparently calming down somewhat, he muttered:

— During a thunderstorm, there is nothing to be afraid of an attack, at least you can sleep in peace.…

He took out a bottle of rum. He poured a full glass and drank it. Alcohol hit him in the head and Nixon, as he was in his clothes, collapsed on the bed, closed the mosquito net, put a revolver under the pillow and plunged into gloomy thoughts. He dreamed of leaving the Amazon forests as soon as possible. He wanted to return to his hometown in Chicago[10], where, according to his uncle's promise, he was to head a branch of the Nixon Rio Putumayo company. If only my uncle would believe that the future co-owner of the company had already seen enough of the business. In the meantime, I had to stay here in the gloomy jungle, in the company of four rude Kapangos and silent, distrustful Indians, constantly not getting enough sleep, being in constant tension, vigilantly watching everything that was happening around me. Near Riu-Putumayo, there were numerous bands of bandits, organized by rubber-traders, who were always ready to attack and rob.

With a quiet sigh of regret, young Nixon remembered Jan Smuga, his uncle's first assistant. This famous traveler, a man of reckless courage, seemed to have no fear. In the wild forest, he felt at home. When Smuga was with him, everything went smoothly in the rubber pickers' camp: there were no quarrels or contradictions, everyone felt completely safe. Smuga treated the semi-savage inhabitants of the jungle with equal freedom, and the more civilized inhabitants of Manaus[11],