The Seven Serpents Trilogy by Scott O’Dell Page A

I NDIANS IN SIGHT .
    Thinking to rally them, Guzmán fired one of the can non. The echoes had scarcely died away when Ayo ap peared out of the thicket of thorn bushes, followed by two of his retainers.
    â€œWe are outnumbered,” Señor Guzmán said to him. “We can defeat the Caribs, but it will take longer to do so unless you lend us a hand.”
    â€œWe trust that you are victorious,” the cacique replied, “but my people are few. Once there were many. I have lost many of my people.”
    â€œGive me two dozen young men, armed with spears, and I will exter minate your enemy. You’ll not need fear them again for many years.”
    â€œI cannot give you two dozen men.”
    â€œHalf that number.”
    â€œNone,” said the cacique. “There is no will among my people to fight.”
    Señor Guzmán stared at the cacique in disbelief. “You would rather die than fight?”
    â€œWe have learned to survive by not fighting.”
    The sun poured down. Guzmán wiped the sweat from his brow and grabbed the musket from my hand.
    â€œYou will now learn to survive by fighting,” he said.
    â€œYour retainers, I see, are armed. I will arm you. Here, Sixto, give him your sword.”
    Sixto unbuckled his weapon and thrust it toward the chieftain. Ayo stepped back and wouldn’t take the sword.
    Guzmán ran his tongue over his lips. “We fight in your behalf,” he said. “I invite you to help us in this fight.”
    â€œIt is not our fight,” Ayo said. “The Caribs did not come for us. They are tired of our flesh. They have told us so. It is your flesh they hunger for.”
    â€œGrasp the sword you are offered,” Guzmán com manded, “and join us in the fight.”
    Ayo glanced at the sword Sixto held out to him. He hesitated, as if he considered taking it. In the trees close by a child was crying. For a moment he seemed to listen to the sound; then he stepped back, refusing the sword, and turned away.
    Guzmán strode to the shed where the two big mastiffs were tethered, untied one of them, and brought it back, straining on the leash.
    Ayo was walking away, up the path he had come by.
    In a calm voice Guzmán said, “Halt. Go no farther.”
    The cacique walked on, his two retainers on either side. Whether he understood the command or even heard it, I cannot say.
    Guzmán gave the order again. This time he shouted.
    The cacique was nearing the jungle when Guzmán unleashed the mastiff. The dog bounded up the path in great leaps, as if it were chasing a rabbit. I don’t think Ayo heard it coming, for the dog moved without a sound. Not until he had reached the thickets at the edge of the jungle did the cacique turn, perhaps to say some last defiant word, and from the distance face Guzmán. The mastiff caught Ayo in the throat and bore him to the earth, shaking him like a bundle of sticks.
    Guzmán called to the dog. It came leaping back and sat at his side, its bloody tongue hanging out.
    When the chieftain’s body was gathered up, shrill cries came from the jungle, followed as the day waned by a chorus of bitter lamentation.
    My mission, I was aware, had come to an end. I would be blamed for Guzmán’s brutal act. No preach ing of mine nor stories nor songs would win back the In dians’ trust. I had much to think about that night.
    Â 
CHAPTER 11
    T WO DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF THE CACIQUE A YO, THE
S ANTA Margarita
sailed in from Hispaniola. Don Luis came ashore as soon as the caravel dropped anchor, dressed in polished boots, a new red-lined cloak, and a leather hat with a long green feather. From his wide smile and jaunty walk I judged that he had been successful in his request for a grant to Isla del Oro. But such was not the case.
    â€œWe were too late by a month,” he confessed. “A Señor Olivares, brother-in-law of the governor, is now outfitting a caravel in Hispaniola and