That convinced Joe Nara. He opened a door beneath the short forward deck and revealed a compact kitchen galley. He heated up a pot offeijoada, a Brazilian dish of black beans cooked with dried meat. With it he served bowls ofmandioca, a mush made from the pulp of thecassava.
Simple though the fare was, it tasted so good that Biff eagerly accepted the second helping that Nara offered him.
“I was really hungry,” said Biff. “I feel as though I had been asleep for hours.”
“You were,” returned Nara. “That stuff you inhaled is a secret Indian brew that acts like chloroform. Gives you an appetite, though, when you do wake up.”
“And just why,” asked Mr. Brewster dryly, “did you happen to try the stuff out on us?”
“I’ll tell you why,” asserted Nara. “Every now and then, I come down from the mine with Igo and Ubi to buy supplies. Whatever I buy, I pay for with these.”
From his pocket, Nara brought some small nuggets of pure gold which clinked heavily when he trickled them from one hand to the other.
“People have been trying to trail me back up to the mine,” continued Nara, “so I bought this boat, theXanadu, from a rubber outfit that had gone broke. I decided to come downriver to see who was spying on me. Before I even got to Santa Isabel, I saw a crew unloading supplies at an old abandoned camp.”
“Whitman’s crew!” exclaimed Mr. Brewster. “I sent them up the Rio Negro to wait for me, so I could start on a safari to find your mine.”
Nara gave an understanding chuckle.
“I had Igo and Ubi talk to the natives,” Nara said. “They learned that the expedition had started from a boathouse outside of Manaus. So I came all the way down the river to look into it. We were watching the boathouse when you came along.”
“So you thought we were enemies—”
“Not exactly enemies,” corrected Nara. “Just suspicious characters. After Igo and Ubi grabbed you, I decided to bring you along. Now that you’ve explained yourselves, I’ll turn around and take you back down to Manaus if you want.”
“Now that we’ve started upriver,” decided Mr. Brewster, “there is no need to go back. We sent our luggage on to Santa Isabel by air, and we intended to take a plane ourselves. But now we may as well keep on with you.”
All that day, theXanadusped swiftly up the Rio Negro. Biff took his turn at the wheel and was pleased by the way the cruiser handled. At intervals, the river became so thick with islands that it reminded Biff of the famous Narrows that he had seen from the air above the lower Amazon. But here on the Rio Negro, the channels were shallow as well as twisty. Still, Biff found no difficulty in guiding the sleek craft through the maze.
“TheXanaduwas built to order for this river,” Nara told Biff. “That’s why I bought her. Be careful, though, when we reach that island dead ahead. The channel appears to split there—”
TheXanaduthrummed upriver
TheXanaduthrummed upriver
As Nara spoke, the palm-fringed island vanished. The whole sky had opened in one tremendous downpour. Biff couldn’t believe that it was only rain. He thought for the moment that theXanaduhad come beneath a tremendous waterfall. Adding to the illusion was the sudden rise of steam from the heated jungle that flanked the channel. Instantly, the speeding cruiser was shrouded in a mist that swelled above it.
“Swing her about!” shrilled Nara. “Our only chance is to turn downstream before the flood hits us!”
Mr. Brewster stepped up and took the wheel. Instead of taking Nara’s advice, he sped the boat straight upstream, picking his course in an amazing fashion. Somehow, he must have gauged the exact position of the threatening island, for he veered past it. New channels seemed to open with each swerve of the cruiser’s bow.
Biff’s father had seen Navy service in the South Pacific and was familiar with jungle waterways as well as tropical storms. As a Lieutenant, Junior Grade, he had been trained specially for jungle fighting and had won medals for bravery, finally leaving the service as a Lieutenant Commander.
“It’s better to buck the current,” Mr. Brewster declared, “than to let it carry us into something we can’t avoid.”
Igo and Ubi were releasing curtains from beneath the permanent top, giving the cruiser’s interior the effect of a long, narrow tent, completely sheltered from the terrific downpour, which like many tropical rains, was coming straight downward.
Some of the narrow channels were flooding rapidly, and there, big logs and branches occasionally met the cruiser’s rounded prow, only to glance aside as Mr. Brewster deftly turned the wheel. They reached a wider channel where a headland bulked suddenly in midstream; but it proved to be a small floating island, composed of small palm trees sprouting from a mass of soil and undergrowth that had come loose from an overhanging bank.
Biff could hear the chatter of monkeys and the screech of birds as the passing branches scraped the hanging canvas on the cruiser’s side. Then the tiny islet and its excited living freight had drifted far downstream. Still Mr. Brewster kept steadily to his course, staring upstream through the cruiser’s rainswept windshield.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rain ended, revealing a new maze of channels that could be found only by looking for gaps among the tree branches, so high had the water risen in this sunken area. Cutting the speed, Mr. Brewster navigated the openings gingerly. That brought a chuckle from Joe Nara.
“Kind of lucky, weren’t you?” he remarked.
“Yes, I was rather lucky,” acknowledged Mr. Brewster. “Like you and Lew Kirby, when you stumbled onto that mine of yours.”
“We were more than lucky,” retorted Nara. “We were smart. Didn’t Lew tell you how we doped it out?”
“He said you ran into a tribe of Indians who were guarding a mountain that they claimed was sacred.”
“That’s right. Wai Wai Indians. Igo and Ubi are members of the tribe.” Nara gestured toward the stolid pair who now were rolling up the canvas curtains. “What else did Lew say?”
“He said you convinced the Indians that you were a powerful witch doctor, so they led you to the lost mine.”
“From the tricks I showed them,” chuckled Nara, “they thought I was El Dorado the Original, and that the mine belonged to me and Lew. You know the story of the man who turned all golden? Well, I proved it could be done.”
Biff was hoping that Nara would give more details on that subject, when suddenly, the white-haired man demanded:
“Did Lew give you a map to locate the mine?”
“Not exactly,” replied Mr. Brewster. “He gave me one showing a route from the mine to some waterways which he said led to the Orinoco River. That was all.”
“That was enough. It proved there was a short way out.”
“Yes, but I still have to go over the actual route to make sure that gold ore could be transported by it, down the Orinoco.”
“Do you have the map with you now?”
“Only part of it.”
From deep in his pocket, Mr. Brewster produced the torn corner from Kirby’s map.
“A prowler stole the rest from my hotel room,” he explained. “I managed to hold on to the part that shows the mine.”
Joe Nara stroked his chin in worried fashion.
“If somebody showed me the rest of the map,” he commented, “I might have to believe them if they said they knew Lew Kirby, too.”
“I thought of that,” returned Mr. Brewster calmly, “and I would be glad if such a person should appear. It would be a case of a thief trapping himself.”
Joe Nara nodded as though he agreed; but he immediately dropped the subject of the map and the mine as well.
During the next few days, theXanaduthrummed upriver, keeping to broad channels instead of short-cuts between islands. This simplified the handling of the cruiser during brief but heavy rainstorms. Biff noted that after each rain the air soon became as humid as before. It was hot at night as well as in the daytime, and while one member of the group piloted the cruiser under the bright tropical moon, the others slept in the ample cockpit; never in the tiny forward cabin.
One evening when Nara was at the wheel, Biff and his father were seated near the stern, far enough away for Biff to ask:
“Do you think Joe Nara doubts your story, Dad?”
“About the map being stolen?” returned Mr. Brewster. “He might be wondering about it. After all, I could have torn the corner from a map that belonged to someone else.”
“But you gave him Kirby’s hand grip and when you mentioned ‘El Dorado’ it was like a password.”
“I could have learned those from some other person. Nara has to be cautious, with a gold mine at stake. I think he trusts me but wants to sound me out. Watch him, and you’ll see he is suspicious of everything.”
Biff noted that as the trip continued, Nara insisted upon giving other river craft a wide berth. When occasional airplanes flew high above, Nara always leaned out from beneath the canopy to study them suspiciously, but the planes apparently took no notice of the boat below.
After the cruiser had passed Santa Isabel, Biff was taking his turn at the wheel when Nara approached and remarked:
“Pretty soon we’ll drop you and your dad at the old rubber camp where your friend Whitman is waiting for you.”
“Aren’t you going to join us on the safari?”
“Not there,” returned Nara. “I’m taking theXanaduon to Sao Gabriel, to see if we can buck the rapids and reach the upper river.”
Mr. Brewster had been close enough to hear Nara’s comment. Now, he put the query:
“Then where will we meet you, Joe?”
“At Piedra Del Cucuy,” Nara replied. “You can see it for miles, a big rock rising from the forest, where Brazil, Venezuela, and Colombia all meet up. By the time you arrive there, we will know if it is safe to go on.”
“Why wouldn’t it be safe?” asked Biff.
“Because of the Macus, the head-hunters who raid the river settlements.” Nara turned to his two Indians and said: “Tell them about the Macus.”
“Macu very bad,” stated Igo.
“Macu kill for head,” added Ubi.
At last theXanadureached an old, dilapidated landing, where half a dozen men stood beside some huts on the high bank. Mr. Brewster indicated one man who was wearing khaki shorts, white shirt, and pith helmet.
“That’s Whitman,” said Mr. Brewster. “He’s too far away to hail him.” He brought out a leather case containing a flat metal mirror and handed it to Biff.
“Whitman understands Morse,” Mr. Brewster said. “Signal him to send out a boat for us, Biff.”
Biff turned the mirror toward the sun, then slanted it in Whitman’s direction. Covering the mirror with his hand, he flashed the message in dots and dashes: S-E-N-D B-O-A-T.
Whitman pointed to a canoe on the shore. Biff watched two figures hurry down and clamber into the craft, a small figure at the bow, a big one in the stern. They paddled out to the waiting cruiser and swung alongside. The man in the stern, a husky, barrel-chested native, furnished a broad, friendly smile.
“Me Jacome,” he announced.
The bow paddler was an Indian boy about Biff’s age and size. He was wearing faded blue denim trousers, ragged at the knees, and a shirt that matched it in color and tattered sleeves. He reached up to grab the cruiser’s side, adding, “I’m Kamuka.”
Biff extended his own hand and responded, “I’m Biff.” In that unexpected handshake, the two boys established an immediate friendship. They grinned at each other as Biff helped Kamuka swing the canoe about so that Jacome could hold the stern alongside.
As soon as Biff and his father stepped into the canoe theXanadusped off like a startled creature. Joe Nara at the wheel, waved good-by, while Igo and Ubi simply stared back like a pair of reversed figureheads. Jacome and Kamuka did fast work with their paddles to prevent the canoe from tipping in the cruiser’s swell. Then they headed toward the dock.
Kamuka looked over his shoulder and said to Biff, “I like the way you send message. You show me how?”
Biff nodded. “I’ll show you how.”
During the short paddle, Mr. Brewster talked to Jacome in Portuguese and Biff, listening closely, understood most of what was said. Mr. Brewster asked about the luggage and was told that it had arrived by air. Also, he wanted to know if the safari was ready to start. Jacome told him yes, that they had been waiting for him to arrive.
When they reached the shore, Hal Whitman was still up by the huts engaged with the natives in an excited conversation. Mr. Brewster started in that direction, and Biff was about to follow when a hand plucked his sleeve. It was Kamuka, with the request:
“You spell message now?”
“All right,” agreed Biff. He produced the mirror, caught the sun’s glint, and focused it on the wall of a hut perhaps a hundred feet away. “Now, watch—”
Biff halted abruptly. A burly native, wearing baggy white shirt and trousers, with a red bandanna tied about his head, had joined the argument and was pushing Mr. Whitman back into the hut.
“Urubu!” exclaimed Kamuka. “He make trouble!”
Whitman came from the hut with a shotgun and gestured for the native, Urubu, to be on his way. Instead, Urubu grabbed for the gun and snatched it from Whitman’s grasp, tripping him at the same time. Mr. Brewster was starting forward on the run, but he was too far away to help Whitman.
Urubu raised the gun butt to drive it down on Whitman’s head. Biff could see the savage look on Urubu’s face. Kamuka gripped Biff’s arm. The native boy’s voice was breathless:
“Somebody must help Mr. Whitman! Quick!”
That jog from Kamuka’s hand gave Biff a sudden idea. Biff was holding the mirror so it threw a big spot of sunlight on the hut wall. The spot wavered when Kamuka jogged Biff’s arm, and Urubu was only a dozen feet from the corner of the hut.
Biff changed the mirror’s angle just a slight degree, spotting the light square in Urubu’s eyes. That reflected glint of the sun was enough. Urubu dropped back, flinging his arm upward to shield his vision. Mr. Whitman came to his feet and grappled for the shotgun. A few seconds later, Mr. Brewster had pitched into the struggle.
They disarmed Urubu, who stood by glaring sullenly. Biff and Kamuka approached the group, and Jacome, who had pulled the canoe on shore, came up behind them.
“You know what the name Urubu means, Biff?” Kamuka asked.
Biff shook his head.
“It means vulture,” the Indian boy said.
A chuckle came from Jacome. “A good name for Urubu. He is like one vulture!”
At close range, Urubu looked the part. He had a profile like a buzzard’s. He stood by, a sullen look on his face, as Mr. Whitman told Mr. Brewster:
“I turned down Urubu as a guide because he lied to me. He said he had guided safaris for the past five years, when part of that time he was in jail. Then he told our porters that I lied to them—”
“You did,” put in Urubu. “You said that Senhor Brewster would arrive three days ago. Instead he has arrived only now—as you can see.”
Urubu repeated those remarks to the native bearers in a mixture of Portuguese and Indian dialect. He was dumfounded when Mr. Brewster spoke to them in the same manner. Mr. Brewster’s words brought a murmur of approval.
“They want to be paid for the days they waited,” Mr. Brewster told Mr. Whitman. “I said we would pay them, and they are satisfied. Do you need Urubu as a guide?”
“I should say not!”
“Then we can send him away again.”
That was unnecessary. When Mr. Brewster turned to speak to Urubu, the troublemaker was gone. He had made a quick departure by the nearest jungle path. Mr. Whitman promptly called for Luiz, the new guide, to step forward, and a small, bowing native came from the group of bearers.
Since it was not yet noon, Mr. Brewster ordered Luiz to get everything ready for an immediate start. Soon the native bearers, more than a dozen in number, were hoisting their packs and other equipment. Meanwhile, Biff was present at a last-minute conference between his father and Hal Whitman.
“We’ll follow our original plan,” stated Mr. Brewster. “If we strike off to the northwest and follow the regular trails, we will appear to be looking forbalatalike any other rubber-hunting expedition.”
Biff knew that the termbalatareferred both to the rubber tree and its juice. He watched Hal Whitman mop perspiration from his forehead. Whitman’s worry seemed to vanish with that process.
“We will be following the long side of a triangle,” Biff’s father continued, “while Joe Nara is going around by the Rio Negro, turning north after he passes Sao Gabriel. But we now know exactly where to meet him. That will be at Piedra Del Cucuy.”
“That’s better than floundering around the headwaters of the Rio Negro,” Whitman agreed. “I was afraid we would be on a wild goose chase, trying to find him there. It’s lucky that you met up with Nara.”
“Let’s say that Nara met up with us,” Mr. Brewster chuckled. “We’ll meet again at Piedra Del Cucuy, provided Nara dodges those head-hunters. Since the rapids will delay him, we should reach the great rock as soon as Nara does.”
“I’ll talk to Luiz and see if he knows the best route—”
“Not yet!” warned Mr. Brewster. “Wait until we are deep in the jungle, with no chance of any spies being about, before we even mention Piedra Del Cucuy. Do you understand?”
The final query was meant for Biff as well as Mr. Whitman. Biff nodded, then went to join Kamuka, who was waiting to help him get his pack on his back. That done, they fell into the procession as it started out.
The first few miles gave Biff the false impression that a jungle trek was easy. The trail was smooth, well-trodden by multitudes of natives who had scoured the back country in search ofbalata. But as paths diverged, they became rougher.
Biff began stumbling over big roots that crossed the path, and when he kept his eyes turned down to watch for them, he lost sight of the bearers ahead of him and had trouble getting into line behind them. Once, Biff lost the trail entirely, and Kamuka overtook him just as he was blundering squarely into a fallen tree.
The obstacle was at shoulder level, and Kamuka, sighting the bearers taking a turn in the path beyond, suggested: “We climb over. Take short way back to trail.”
Biff pressed aside some projecting branches as he clambered across the tree trunk, pack and all. His hands became sticky with some clinging substance.
“Spider web. Thick here,” Kamuka said. He helped Biff brush away the fine-spun threads, and pointed into the sunlight that filtered through the jungle foliage.
Kamuka cleared the branches with hard, expert slashes
Kamuka cleared the branches with hard, expert slashes
Glistening between the tree branches were the largest, thickest spider webs that Biff had ever seen. There were multitudes of them, forming what at first glance seemed an impassible barrier.
Kamuka settled that problem by clearing away the obstructing branches with hard, expert slashes of his machete, taking the webs with them.
The trail had become so irregular that the bearers frequently had to hack their way through the thick growth. Kamuka did the same, and Biff tried to copy the Indian youth’s smooth style. Kamuka handled his machete easily, despite the pack that he carried. But with Biff, the pack shifted at every swing, and its straps cut into his back and shoulders.
Big Jacome was doing most of the trail blazing, with Kamuka close behind him. Mr. Brewster and Mr. Whitman did their share, while urging the bearers to take their turns at the work. All responded willingly, with the exception of the guide, Luiz, who was lagging behind.
“What’s holding you back, Luiz?” Whitman demanded. “Why don’t you get up ahead and take a hand at cutting the trail?”
“You pay others to cut trail, Senhor,” returned Luiz. “You pay me to be guide.Nao?”
Biff’s father overheard the argument and provided a prompt solution.
“Since you are the guide,” he told Luiz, “suppose you show us the trail. Possibly we have lost it. You lead; we will follow.”
Mr. Brewster spoke in the Brazilian dialect that the bearers understood. Their solemn faces broadened at the expense of Luiz. Angrily, the undersized guide shouldered his way to the head of the line and began hacking at the brush with Jacome. Biff caught up with Kamuka, who had waited while Luiz went by.
“You see his face?” asked Kamuka. “Luiz is very mad. He does not like hard work.”
The glower that Luiz gave over his shoulder proved that Kamuka’s opinion was correct. The keen-eyed Indian boy was quick to note that Biff’s face also wore a pained expression, but for a different reason. Understandingly, Kamuka said:
“You have trouble with pack. I fix it.”
Expertly, he adjusted the straps to the fraction of an inch. From then on, the pack seemed to fit to Biff’s back, giving him no more aches. What amazed Biff, though, was the fact that Kamuka’s pack had no straps, but was laced to his back by crude ropes made from jungle vines. Yet it seemed to adjust itself to every move that Kamuka made.
Soon, the going became easier underfoot, and the path was free of obstacles. It was no longer necessary to hack through the jungle growth.
“Luiz bring us back to better trail,” Kamuka confided to Biff. “Less work for Luiz.”
It was less work for Biff, too, though he didn’t say so. He was pleased because his father had handled the situation so neatly. Biff noted the happy grins on the faces of the bearers every time Mr. Brewster moved back and forth among them. Biff grinned, too, when his dad came by and gave him an encouraging whack on the pack which now seemed molded to Biff’s body.
“It takes a few days to get into the swing of a safari,” Mr. Brewster stated, “so don’t be discouraged. Even the native bearers are struggling a bit, though they won’t admit it. We’ll call it a day as soon as we reach a suitable campsite.”
About an hour later, the safari halted. Gratefully, the bearers eased their packs to the ground and began to set up camp at Whitman’s direction, on a high bank above a jungle stream. The insects were bothersome, as they had been at intervals along the route, but the expedition was equipped to meet that problem. The packs contained netting for the sleeping hammocks, as well as insect repellent.
The chief feature of the campsite was its closeness to a water hole. Luiz approved this, making a great show of his official title of guide. Biff, glad to be free of his pack, eagerly volunteered to help Kamuka bring up pails of water from the stream below. Halfway down, Kamuka hissed for a quick halt.
“We go back up quick,” he said to Biff. “We tell Senhor Brewster we see tapir at water hole.”
Kamuka pointed out a pair of curious dark brown animals, with clumsy, bulky bodies, stocky legs, and long-snouted heads. The creatures were feeding on the leaves of young trees and appeared somewhat tame. Kamuka took no chance on frightening them away, however, as he beckoned Biff up the path.
Mr. Brewster promptly picked up a loaded rifle and accompanied the boys down the path. The tapirs were already lumbering into the brush when Biff’s father took quick but accurate aim on one of the animals and fired.
One tapir dropped in its tracks, while its companion crashed madly into the jungle. The boys rushed down to the bank and found that the tapir was shot squarely through the head. When Mr. Brewster joined them, he smiled.
“That’s the only way to shoot a tapir,” he declared. “Otherwise, they blunder into the jungle wounded, and you can never find them. They have thick hides like a hippopotamus. In fact, they belong to the same family.”
That night, the members of the safari feasted on tapir steaks, which they broiled on the prongs of long, forked sticks. Later, they went to sleep around the same campfire. All day, Biff had listened to the chatter of monkeys and the screech of birds. Now, howls of jungle animals seemed tuned to the heavy basso chorus of frogs from the stream below.
But despite that, Biff was soon sound asleep, the crackle of the campfire blending with his last waking moments. Some hours later, he woke up suddenly. The jungle concert had ended, and the flames had settled to a low, subdued flicker. Somebody should have tended the fire, Biff thought. He recalled his father discussing that point with Luiz shortly after they had finished dinner. Biff rolled from his hammock and groped toward some logs that lay beside the fire. There, he halted at sight of what appeared to be two live coals, glinting from a big log.
Biff pulled back his hand just in time, as the log came alive with a snarl. Biff realized that he had encountered some prowling beast of prey. He raised the alarm with a loud shout:
“Dad! There’s something here by the fire—”
Before Biff could complete the sentence, he saw that the creature was a huge jungle cat, its tawny yellow coat spotted black. Already, it was poising for a spring. Biff, caught unarmed, was confronted by an attacking jaguar, one of the jungle’s most ferocious killers.
Biff heard an answering call from his father. Then, before Mr. Brewster could have possibly found time to grab his gun, the jaguar sprang!
Biff flung his arms upward, as he tried to duck away. It was a hopeless effort, for nothing could have saved him from those fierce claws, once the jaguar reached him. What stopped the springing jungle cat was another figure, small but chunky, that came flying out of the darkness, feet first.
It was Kamuka. The Indian boy had grabbed a long liana vine hanging like a rope from a tree beside his high hammock. All in one motion, he had swung himself across the jaguar’s path just in time to ram the creature’s shoulder in mid-air and veer the big cat toward the fire.
That gave Biff time enough to roll the other way, and Kamuka, as he struck the ground, promptly squirmed about to dive off into the darkness. The scene was momentarily illuminated by a shower of sparks raised by the jaguar when it struck the fringe of the embers. With more of a yowl than a snarl, the big cat cleared the fire at a single bound and took off into the jungle.
Mr. Brewster had his gun by then, but with so many figures bouncing in the vague firelight, he couldn’t risk a shot. By the time Biff and Kamuka were out of the way, Jacome had come on the scene, swinging a big club. Mr. Brewster had to wait until he was out of the path of aim, before firing into the jungle.
By then, Mr. Brewster might as well have fired blank shots. The jaguar had vanished completely in darkness. Jacome threw some logs on the fire, and as the flames took hold, he commented:
“The tapir tiger—that is what we call the jaguar. A good name for him. Look there and you see why!”
Jacome indicated a chunk of cooked tapir meat, hanging from a tree branch near the fire. The smell of its favorite food had evidently drawn the “tapir tiger” in from the jungle. But that did not fully satisfy Mr. Brewster.
“Jaguars frequently kill and eat tapirs,” Biff’s father declared, “but they also shy away from campfires. I gave orders that this fire should be tended all night. Who neglected his duty?”
The final words were addressed to Luiz, who had just joined the group. The guide shrugged and gestured to some of the native bearers who were coming sleepily from their hammocks. They stared dumbly at Luiz, until Mr. Brewster queried them sharply in their dialect, getting headshakes from all.
“I will give the orders direct from now on,” Mr. Brewster told Luiz bluntly, “and I intend to see that they are carried out.” He looked up, noted the faint glimmer of daybreak through the high leaves, and added, “It is after dawn. Let’s break camp and start on our way.”
Biff expressed his thanks to Kamuka while the Indian boy was helping him prepare his pack.
“If you hadn’t hopped to help me the way you did,” asserted Biff, “I would be just a chunk of tapir meat, or something a lot like it. I’ll remember what you did for me, Kamuka.”
“That is good,” rejoined Kamuka solemnly. “I help you. You help me. That is the way in the jungle.”
Biff felt that he was getting the knack of jungle ways during that day’s trek, but he was due for new surprises. As they hacked a path through a thick growth of brush, he heard a sound that was sharply distinct from the screeches of the vivid parrots and macaws that continually scolded from the trees.
It was exactly like a hammer striking an anvil or some other chunk of solid metal. It came from well back in the jungle, and after it was repeated, Biff said to Kamuka:
“Hear that! There must be a village back there in the jungle!”
Kamuka laughed as the clanging sound came again.
“El campanero,” he defined. “That is what some people call it. Others call it the bellbird.”
“You mean it’s only a bird?”
As if in answer, the sharp note was repeated with methodical precision, and Biff recognized that it had a quality that could be mistaken for a bell rather than the clank of hammer on anvil. Biff kept looking for the bird itself until Kamuka noticed it and told him:
“Bellbird very hard to find. He may be far away when you think he is close by.”
Other creatures were closer at hand. From up ahead, Jacome turned and pointed to the path. He called something in his native tongue, and Biff watched the bearers take quick sidesteps. Then Kamuka was nudging Biff with his elbow and pointing out the reason.
A procession of ants was moving along the trail as though keeping pace with the safari. The insects were carrying thin green slivers that wobbled above their bodies. Biff saw that those were tiny fragments of leaves that the ants had gathered and evidently were going to store for food.
“Umbrella ants,” defined Kamuka. “Be careful or they crawl up your leg instead of along path. Umbrella ants can bite—hard!”
From the way the ants had chopped the leaves they carried, Biff took Kamuka at his word. He played hopscotch with the insects until they veered off the trail. The going became easy again, except that the atmosphere of the jungle was growing more humid. Even the chatter of the birds and monkeys was silenced in the sultry calm.
Then came a sudden rain as torrential as the big downpour that they had encountered on the Rio Negro. With the jungle steam rising about them, it was a case of groping along the trail, which soon became ankle deep with water. As he sloshed through the muck, Biff told Kamuka:
“Those ants are smarter than we are. They must have known this was coming and carried their own umbrellas.”
Kamuka interpreted that to Jacome, who laughed and passed it along to the bearers. The rain stopped suddenly at last, but although the heat returned again, the path remained soggy underfoot. Luiz, it seemed, had lost the trail during the rain and was marching the safari into a jungle swamp.
Mr. Brewster called a halt. It was not just a matter of getting back on the trail; he wanted the best trail. For the first time, Biff heard his father mention “Piedra Del Cucuy” to Luiz, who nodded that he understood.
“We go to Piedra Del Cucuy,” assured Luiz. “That is easy, now I know. I show you the best way.”
Biff’s clothes were dry by now except for his shoes and socks, which felt as if they were filled with lead weights as the march was resumed. Luiz soon took the safari out of the swampy land to a dry path, but at times, he showed hesitancy at places where the trail divided. Always, he came finally to a definite decision, but Jacome began to eye him suspiciously.
“We all hear Senhor Brewster say we go to Piedra Del Cucuy,” Jacome confided to Biff and Kamuka. “Now we know we go there, Luiz is afraid to take us on wrong trail. Some of us go to Piedra Del Cucuy before this. We may remember way if Luiz ‘forget’ it.”
A little later, Biff fell in stride alongside his dad and told him what Jacome had said.
“I think there’s no question but that Luiz is trying to delay us,” declared Mr. Brewster. “The only puzzle is his purpose. He may simply be hoping to make more money by keeping us longer on the hike. Or he may have deliberately stalled us in order to learn our exact destination. That is why I told him. Now, I am forcing him to show his hand.”
Mr. Brewster’s tactics paid off by mid-afternoon. The ringing cry of the bellbird had begun again in the deep jungle, and Biff was still hoping for a sight of the elusivecampanero, when Luiz led the safari on a short side trail that terminated in a clearing. There Luiz announced, “We camp here tonight.”
“We could still go on a few miles farther,” objected Mr. Brewster. “In fact, we might stop almost anywhere on the trail.”
“Plenty of water here,” argued Luiz. “Maybe not in other places.”
Jacome overheard that. The big man supplied a grim but knowing grin as he muttered his own opinion to the boys.
“Maybe and maybe not,” said Jacome. “In wet season, we find water everywhere; in dry season, no. But we came through big rain today, like wet season.”
After brief deliberation, Mr. Brewster gave Luiz the nod.
“We need water,” he agreed, “and perhaps we are too tired to go on much farther today. We will make camp here.”
Hardly had they unloaded their packs before Kamuka suggested to Biff, “Come with me. Maybe we find bellbird.”
They started along a twisty jungle path in the general direction of the distant metallic sound. Kamuka was moving so hurriedly that they were out of sight of camp before Biff caught up with him and reminded him, “They may want to send us for water, back at camp—”
“That can wait,” put in Kamuka. “We find bird first.”
“But you told me before that there was no use looking for the bellbird, that the sound might be far away.”
“I know. But this is not real bellbird. Listen.”
Biff listened. The sharp note came clear again, from exactly the same direction. Biff could detect no difference between it and the anvil chorus of earlier in the day. But Kamuka could.
“Somebody is hitting metal with hammer,” the Indian boy insisted. “We look for them. We find them—if we hurry.”
Kamuka waved his arm for Biff to follow, as he started a quick jog along the jungle path, hoping to reach the source of the well-faked bird call before the sounds ceased. Straight ahead, low tree branches formed a thick green arch, darkening the path between two low banks that were vivid with colorful flowers.
Mostly, they were magnificent orchids that thrived on dampness as well as heat, but Biff was unaware of that. Kamuka, though schooled in jungle knowledge, ignored the flowers in his haste. He had turned his head to see if Biff had responded to his call, when suddenly, the green carpeting of the path gave way beneath his weight.
A moment later, Kamuka was waist deep in slimy ooze, squirming, twisting about to grab at bushes on the solid ground that he had left. The tufts of grass that he clutched simply pulled loose from the soft earth. With each quickly repeated snatch, he had still less chance of gaining a hold, for he was sinking to his armpits as he panted:
“Look out, Biff! Don’t come close! Quicksand!”
Biff stopped a dozen feet short of the spot where Kamuka, arms emerging from the mire, was frantically waving him back. Biff felt the soft bank giving way beneath him, and he immediately sprang back to solid ground, knowing that only from there could he hope to save his friend.
Kamuka was still sinking in the quicksand, though more slowly now. That gave Biff a few more minutes in which to help him; but how to help was still a question. There was no use throwing a liana vine to Kamuka; it would be too flimsy. A tree branch would be better, but the only boughs strong enough to support a person’s weight were those that overhung the mire itself.
Biff couldn’t wrench those branches loose from their trunks in time to save Kamuka. In fact, to push anything out from the bank looked like a hopeless plan. The best way to help would be by a pull straight up. Biff realized that, when he saw Kamuka look up toward the lowest bough, six feet or more above his head.
Biff felt the soft bank giving way beneath him
Biff felt the soft bank giving way beneath him
If only Kamuka could reach that far!
That thought gave Biff the answer. Skirting the quicksand, he climbed one of the trees and started working out on its lowest thick branch, hand over hand, toward the spot where Kamuka, now nearly shoulder-deep in the muck, still looked up hopefully.
So far, Biff had been worrying whether the bough would prove strong enough. Now he was wishing that it would bend more. Biff was dangling near Kamuka, but not quite above him; and it was impossible for the Indian boy to shift his position in the quicksand. But Biff was able to do the next best thing.
Locking his hands over the thick branch, Biff began a pendulum swing, out and back—out and back—bringing his ankles closer to Kamuka’s reach. Kamuka made one clutch and missed, but on the next swing Biff practically placed his ankle in the Indian boy’s grasp.
Kamuka caught Biff’s other ankle in the same fashion, and Biff, slanting a glance downward, saw the other boy’s face smiling grimly from between those upstretched arms. Kamuka’s voice came calmly. “Hold tight, Biff. I will pull up slowly.”
Now Biff was glad that the bough was a stout one, for he could feel it give under Kamuka’s added weight. Biff tried to work himself higher by bending his arms and turning them along the branch, so that he could use his hands to grip his opposite wrists.
That helped at first, but Kamuka’s weight kept increasing as he emerged gradually from the ooze, and the strain made Biff’s shoulders feel as if they would pull from their sockets. But by then, Kamuka had worked clear of the quicksand’s suction. He caught Biff’s belt with one hand; then the other. Next, he was clamping Biff’s shoulder and finally the tree branch.
The strain lessened then, with both boys dangling from the bough. Practically side by side, they made a hand-over-hand trip toward the tree trunk and dropped to solid ground. There they sat a moment, panting and rubbing their shoulders as they looked at each other, a bit bewildered by their short but strenuous adventure.
From the distance came that clear metallic note that they had heard before. Kamuka looked at Biff.
“We still go find it—maybe?”
“All right, Kamuka. Let’s go find it.”
They skirted the quicksand and took the path that Kamuka had missed in his hurry. It divided into lesser paths, but they continued to pick a course in the general direction of the clanging sound.
“Somebody use that for a signal,” declared Kamuka. “When we find it, you will see that I am right—”
“Youareright,” Biff whispered. “Look there!”
A figure had cut into the path well ahead of them and was continuing on. Softly, Kamuka whispered the name: “Luiz!”