Suddenly two Peruvians came into view not more than twelve feet from where the Chief, Arara the big club-man, and I were standing.  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.  I dodged behind another tree and saw how the branches were swept aside as he rushed towards me.

Then I fired point-blank, sending three bullets into his head.  He fell on his face at my feet.  As I bent over him, I saw that he had a blow-gun arrow in his left thigh; he was therefore a doomed man before he attacked me.  This was my first and only victim, during this brief but horrible slaughter.  As I was already thoroughly sick from the noise of cracking rifles and the thumping of clubs smashing their way into the brains of the Peruvians, I rushed toward the centre of the valley where the first attack on the advance guard of the enemy had taken place, but even more revolting was the sight that revealed itself.  Here and there bushes were shaking as some caboclo crawled along on all fours in his death agony.  Those who were struck by the blow-gun arrows seemed simply to fall asleep without much pain or struggle, but the victims of the club-men and the bow-and-arrow men had a terrible death.  They could not die by the merciful wourahli poison, like those shot by the blow-gun, but expired from hemorrhages caused by the injuries of the ruder weapons.  One poor fellow was groaning most pitifully.  He had received a well-directed big-game arrow in the upper part of the abdomen, the arrow having been shot with such terrible force that about a foot of the shaft projected from the man’s back.  The arrow-head had been broken off by striking a vertebra.