One of
these was a Spaniard, evidently the captain of this band of marauders
(or, to use their correct name, _caucheros_). His face was of a sickly,
yellowish hue, and a big, black moustache hid the lower part of his
cruel and narrow chin. He took a quick aim as he saw us in his path,
but before he could pull the trigger, Arara, with a mighty side-swing
of his club literally tore the Spaniard's head off. Now, at last,
the bonds of restraint were broken for this handsome devil Arara, and
yelling himself hoarse, and with his strong but cruel face contracted
to a fiendish grin, he charged the enemy; I saw him crush the life
out of three.
The Chief took no active part in the fight whatever, but added
to the excitement by bellowing with all his might an encouraging
"_Aa--Oo--Ah_." No doubt, this had a highly beneficial effect upon the
tribesmen, for they never for an instant ceased their furious fighting
until the last Peruvian was killed. During the final moments of the
battle, several bullets whirred by me at close range, but during the
whole affair I had had neither opportunity nor necessity for using
my pistol. Now, however, a _caboclo_, with a large, bloody machete
in his hand, sprang from behind a tree and made straight for me.
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