Ecuador

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

FOR THE PAST THREE days, Jago’s band had moved along the edge of the expansive Río Napo, staying in front of their pursuers.

Jago gambled that the army pursuers would continue to chase his small band in the same way, and not jump ahead to ambush them. If the army leader was skilled, he would lull them into the complacency of the chase. If he was arrogant, he might assume his men could overtake them. Or maybe Jago was wrong, and an ambush was only minutes away. Jago knew, however, that sooner or later this would end. A mental guessing game between him and the army officer who was chasing him further and further south and away from his home country.

Chesswits, he said to himself. While his English was limited, he enjoyed playing word games with himself. He was alive because he was good at reasoning and liked playing games of wit. But how good is the army commander? Perhaps he is better, Jago mused, and he will play a better game than I will. He sensed he had prolonged the game as long as he could. Spotting two dugouts partially hidden at the bank’s side, he made a decision. They passed a narrow disused game track that he would later take after a little misdirection. They boarded the canoes and paddled downstream for a mile.

As they drifted with the murky current, Jago pointed to an overgrown area where the trail veered away from the river. After landing, they set the canoes adrift before ascending the muddy bank, picking their way through the dense growth, and crossing the trail into the jungle. Carlos scooped water from a puddle into his hat and washed away their muddy footprints. He was the last to cross the trail, brushing their tracks away with a handful of long grass.

As they slowly worked their way parallel to the path and back toward the game trail, San broke the silence, whispering to Chico, ‘Why not stay in the canoes and get far away?’

Chico made a cut sign across his throat.

San looked irritated and continued anyway. ‘I think it is better we stay in the canoes,’ he said.

Chico whispered, ‘We’re sitting ducks in the canoes. Ahora, silencio.’

After moving through the tangled growth, Jago found the little-used game trail near where they had taken the dugouts. Spider webs spanned the little track, glistening silver in thin shafts of the late afternoon light that filtered through the dense canopy.

The webs stretched innocently across the insect superhighway, apparently invisible to the fast-flying speedsters. To the insects’ eyes, there were few obstacles to skirt in the relatively uninhabited space above the trail. Whether it was their diminutive cognitive powers or reckless behavior, they raced over, around, and occasionally, into a sticky thread.

Jago reached down to a web and, with a long elegant finger, flicked a filament, sending a vibration along the shimmering thread to its patiently waiting weaver. Camouflaged by its stillness, a large black and red spider gingerly stepped across the web, moving quickly but hesitantly. Jago tickled the thread again, and the spider moved toward the source of the vibrations. Jago smiled, stood, and stepped over the web, continuing methodically ahead.

Jago’s pursuer’s commander assumed his prey was now lulled into a false sense of security as they progressed along the wide river. Soon, when the helicopter arrived, he would fly men ahead and snare his target in an ambush, just as Jago assumed he might do. A two-pronged ambush: men in front, men behind, and the helicopter with its gunner coming in from the riverside.

Jago wondered, however, why the forces behind them had not set up an ambush immediately. Perhaps the army commander had no transport. They had heard a few boats moving up and down the river, but they observed none with army troops. No helicopters had flown overhead, scouting for his band. This didn’t mean, though that the choppers had not flown around them out of hearing range, ferrying troops for an ambush.

In this game of cat and mouse, one would win and the other lose. Jago was not arrogant enough to assume that, while he had evaded his enemies for most of his life, he would always win.

Everyone followed carefully in his footsteps as he walked around, over, and sometimes under the dew-laden webs. The army would have expert trackers. He avoided soft soil and mud, leaving little sign that humans had passed this way. León followed the none-too-intelligent and less-experienced Carlos, making sure he left no sign for others to follow. Jago stopped to watch a slow-moving, eight-inch, brown-colored, hard-shelled turtle, admiring its prehistoric beauty.

Jago was tall at six feet four inches, and thin, with sinewy muscles that looked ropy through his taut caramel-colored skin. A black drooping mustache, together with a few gray hairs and sleepy-dog brown eyes, suggested an amiable character.

‘The depression to our left probably leads to a stream. Search and see if you can find a place for us to stay for a few days,’ he whispered. Chico was smart. He had been with Jago since he was old enough to carry a weapon. He could be relied on to choose a good overnight spot.

Chico, mature for his age, shared with Jago a caution that had kept them alive through the years and out of the clutches of the government troops. San did not share their caution. ‘Why don’t we keep going? I don’t think they will catch us,’ said the fifteen-year-old.

Jago held up his hand, silencing him before turning to his sometime lover. ‘Cherry, go back along the river and make sure our army friends don’t notice our little subterfuge when they pass.’ Cherry, wearing bandoleers crisscrossing a tan shirt and amplifying her breasts, turned to leave, giving the young San a look that suggested exactly what she thought of him.

Jago, ever the patient teacher, explained to San what he didn’t need to explain to the others. ‘They pursued us long enough to think we will keep running along the river in front of them. They will soon call additional troops in ahead of our route, or perhaps send men by boat or plane ahead of our path to set an ambush. Their commander possibly will try to catch up with us, push us into the ambush, and his trackers will see the place where we took the dugouts and assume we are on the river. It would be very lucky for them to find us camped here.’ Then he added, ‘as long as we are careful to leave no sign for their trackers and keep quiet.’

Jago assumed his role as leader naturally and with a dedication to instruct and pass on knowledge, both about war and peace.

‘I see,’ said San, ‘it is smart thing to do but still we must have luck.’

‘Our lives are decided by judgment and luck,’ responded Jago.

A bird-like whistle, blending with the jungle sounds, came from the direction of the river. Cherry was sending a note of caution, not danger. Jago motioned the others to fade into the jungle.

After ten minutes, another whistle twittered through the green understory, and the men reappeared. None were concerned, as it was the way they spent their days, cautiously moving in and out of the shadows.

‘Good place with water,’ said León as he, too, appeared from the dense jungle understory.

‘Show the others. Set up a guard. I’ll wait for Cherry, and we will be along just after dark.’

Jago whistled his unique birdcall. Several minutes later, Cherry silently and slowly walked off the trail to Jago, her white teeth showing in the fading early evening light. Except for a small scar below her right eye, her shoulder-length black hair and an unblemished light-coffee complexion suggested she was younger than her twenty-nine years.

She liked and respected Jago, just as he did her. They had known each other since she was thirteen years old. He had been her first lover one year later. They had never belonged to each other and had only made love infrequently over the years. Occasionally, they embraced each other. She could not say she loved him other than in a paternal way, but she would willingly give her life for him. He had been the only family she had after hers was killed, and she was abandoned in an army camp as a blossoming teenager.

They walked indirectly to the camp, approaching from the opposite direction that León had taken earlier. Jago whistled his evening birdcall, alerting them they were arriving. A return whistle indicated the exact direction to their night’s resting place.

A smile broke out on Jago’s face as he reached out, slapping Lobo on the shoulder. The big man had remained still as they approached, nearly invisible in the dark shadows cast by the last vestiges of twilight filtering through the jungle trees. Lobo was the same size as many of the tree trunks. Jago nearly missed him. As it was, he only sensed Lobo when he was close enough to reach out and touch him.

The three veterans of many battles moved carefully to their small campsite. The ten-foot-by-ten-foot clearing was faintly lit by early stars. They sat on the damp soil by the edge of the trickling water to eat their sparse rations. León, San, Chico, and Carlos were already in their net hammocks around the edge of the clearing, talking softly while they ate.

‘We search in the morning and make sure the soldiers have passed,’ said Jago as he stood.