Silence is Golden

38. Kaboom

Mr Ambrose whirled around, a shining rifle in his hand. Shouts rose from the natives all around. Apparently, they had seen rifles before. From the looks on their faces, I would guess they had felt them, too. Bows, arrows and spears went up in a perfect symphony of threatening violence.

Mr Ambrose didn't seem perturbed. Swinging the rifle upwards, he fired, once, into the sky. I jumped, and so did nearly everyone else. Only the old woman remained standing still near the entrance of the hut, watching Mr Ambrose with a speculative glint in her eyes.

Mr Ambrose lowered the rifle until it was pointing straight ahead. Bowstrings all around were suddenly drawn back, arrows ready to be fired. But Mr Ambrose wasn't aiming at any of the natives. As best I could tell, he was aiming at a spot about a dozen yards to my left, where nothing stood but an old, empty bowl on the ground.

Bam!

The muzzle flashed, the rifle bucked, held only in place by Mr Ambrose's strong hands. With a crack, the bowl splintered into a dozen pieces and mud splattered up into the air. Mr Ambrose, as if completely unaware of the danger he was in, with hundreds of probably poison-tipped arrows aimed straight at him, marched over to the old Indian lady and held out the rifle to her, offering it with both hands. The old lady took it, and, a gleam in her eyes, ran her withered old hands along the shiny metal. Mr Ambrose marched back towards the packhorses and flung back the covering over their load all the way.

An excited murmur went up from all around as the sun sparkled on the barrels of at least forty rifles. Mr Ambrose focused his cool gaze on the old lady. She gazed back at him, clutching the rifle. He cocked his head in a gesture as clear as hers had been, earlier: good enough for you?

The old lady gazed down at the rifle in her hands once more – then nodded.

From all around, cheers erupted.

*~*~**~*~*

I had to hand it to him. I really had to. He was hands down the hardest, coldest, most devious negotiator I had ever met in my entire life. He had basically managed to get everything he wanted in exchange for something that didn't actually belong to him. Nice trade, that, right?

I didn't know whether to be angry, impressed, or simply relieved. I probably would have been all three if I hadn't been busy being so thoroughly exhausted.

The effort of hiking hundreds of miles through the jungle was finally catching up with me. As soon as a good-hearted Indian lady showed me two suitable trees, I hung up my hammock, fell into it and was dead to the world. I think not even a lovesick monkey cleaning my ear could have woken me up right then and there. When I woke up, I was confused for a moment. The sun was just about where it had been when I had fallen asleep in the middle of the day – but the clouds were totally different, and so was the colour of the sky.

'What...?' My voice was nothing but a drowsy drawl. 'What time is it?'

'The real question,' came a cool voice from nearby, 'would be "what day?".'

Blinking, I hauled myself up until the statuesque form of Mr Rikkard Ambrose came into view not far away, sitting on a rock so still you might think he was part of the stone.

'I've slept more than one day?' I demanded.

A snap announced the opening of Mr Ambrose's silver pocket watch.

'Two days, three hours and twenty-seven minutes, to be precise, Mr Linton. But don't feel the need to end your nap prematurely. It's not as if we are in any hurry, with a horde of bloodthirsty soldiers on our track and an enormous treasure to find.'