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us, for that matter? We know now where the leak came.
Through Urubu.”

Mr. Brewster weighed that statement, then slowly shook

his head.

“Urubu couldn’t have sent word to Serbot that fast,” he

declared, then, turning to Biff, he queried: “You are sure
Serbot told Luiz to find out what he could about Nara?”

“Yes,” replied Biff, “and about the map, too.”

“Then it wasn’t Serbot’s man who stole the map,”

mused Mr. Brewster, “unless he wants that missing
corner that I still have. Or else—”

Mr. Brewster interrupted himself, as sounds of

excitement came from the bearers, who were busy
thatching palm leaves to form a shelter. Their babble of
dialect included the name “Luiz,” and a couple of the
bearers were running to help the guide as he came
limping into camp.

“Say nothing,” warned Mr. Brewster. “Just listen to what

Luiz has to tell us.”

Luiz had plenty to tell when they formed a sympathetic

group around him.

“I look for water hole,” Luiz told them, “and I meet una
grande sucuria—one big anaconda! He grab me around
my body, like this!”

Graphically, Luiz gestured to indicate how the snake’s

coils had encircled his body.
Biff and Kamuka kept straight, solemn faces as Luiz
continued.

“I pull my gun quick!” Luiz thrust his hand deep in his 71

trouser pocket and brought out a small revolver. “I fire
quick, until the gun is empty.” He clicked the trigger
repeatedly; then broke open the revolver and showed
its empty chambers. “Still, anaconda hold me, until I
draw knife and stab him hard!”

From a sheath at the back of his belt, Luiz whipped out

a knife that looked far more formidable than his puny
gun. He gave fierce stabs at the imaginary anaconda,
his face gleaming with an ugly smile that was more
vicious than triumphant. Luiz looked like a small edition
of Urubu, whose ways he seemed to copy.

“Big snake go off into jungle,” added Luiz, wiggling his

hand ahead of him to indicate the anaconda’s writhing
course. “Hurt bad, I think. Maybe it is dead by now. But
the animals were still afraid of it. I hear them run.”

His sharp eyes darted from Biff to Kamuka, but neither

boy changed expression. Clumsily, Luiz pocketed the
revolver with his left hand and thrust the knife smoothly
back into its sheath with his right. He rubbed his side
painfully, then beckoned to two of the natives and said,
“We go look for water hole again.”

A short while later, the boys had a chance to exchange

comments while they were gathering palm fronds for
the shelter. After making sure that no one else was
nearby, Kamuka confided:

“Luiz had no gun at start of safari. Urubu must have

given gun to him.”
“To explain the shots if any of our party heard them!” 72
exclaimed Biff. “And did you see the way Luiz looked at
us when he mentioned scared animals? Maybe they
glimpsed us going into the brush.”

“Maybe,” agreed Kamuka. “I think they shoot anaconda,

or big sucuria would not let Luiz go so easy.”

“That’s another reason why Luiz claimed he shot it,”

added Biff. “We might come across the anaconda and
find the bullet marks.”

Shortly afterward, the boys found a chance to repeat

those opinions to Mr. Brewster, who added a few points
that they had overlooked.

“Luiz couldn’t possibly have brought the gun from his

pocket, as he claimed,” stated Mr. Brewster, “because
the snake was already coiled about his body. For that
matter, he could not have drawn his knife, either.

“However, from the clumsy way he showed us the gun

and put it back in the wrong pocket, you could tell he
had never handled it before. In contrast, he was smooth
and quick with his knife, which is obviously his
customary weapon.”

One question still perplexed Biff.

“That other camp is a good way off, Dad,” Biff said, “yet
we heard the anvil strokes before we started out. How
come you didn’t hear the gunfire later?”

“Urubu may have made the first strokes closer by,” 73

replied Mr. Brewster. “The anvil sound is also sharper
than a gunshot and should carry farther. That is
probably why they chose it as a signal. Kamuka did well
to detect it.”

That evening, Biff was glad there had been time to build
the thatched shelter, for a tropical dew had begun to
settle, almost as thick as a dripping rain. It was less
damp beneath the shelter, where Biff and Kamuka had
slung their hammocks.

Mr. Brewster, however, had inflated a rubber mattress

and had placed it near the fire, stating that he would
use a poncho to keep off the moisture. From his
hammock, Biff watched his dad arrange small logs and
palm stalks as spare fuel. As he closed his eyes, Biff
could hear his father talking to Luiz, who was standing
close by.

“I will watch the fire tonight,” announced Mr. Brewster.

“You have been hurt. You need rest more than I do.”

“But, Senhor,” objected Luiz. “Suppose you fall asleep—”

“I am sure to wake up at intervals. I always do. But you

must get some sleep, Luiz. We need you to guide us to
Piedra Del Cucuy. You are sure you know the way?”

“Most certainly, Senhor. But it may take longer than you

expect.”

A pause—then Mr. Brewster asked bluntly, “Why?”

“Because the shortest way is not the best way,” returned 74

Luiz. “We might meet floods, or streams where the
piranha may attack us. They are very dangerous fish,
the piranha—”
“I know,” interrupted Mr. Brewster impatiently, “but we
have no time to waste.”

“You are meeting someone at Piedra Del Cucuy?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Brewster. “A man named—” He caught

himself, then said in a blunt tone:

“I won’t know our plans until we get there. We will

continue on up the river. That is all that I can tell you.”

“Don’t you have a map, Senhor?”

Biff opened his eyes at Luiz’s question. He saw his

father start to reach into his inside pocket, then bring
his hand out empty. Shaking his head, Mr. Brewster
said:

“No, I have no map. Go get some sleep, Luiz. You will

need it.”

Biff glimpsed Luiz’s face as the sneaky guide turned

from the firelight. Beneath the hatbrim, Luiz wore that
same ugly smile that showed his satisfaction. Obviously,
Luiz was planning his next move, probably for
tomorrow.

When it came, his father would be ready for it, Biff felt
sure. Soon Biff drifted into a fitful sleep from which he
awoke at intervals. Sometimes he heard the crackle of
the fire and decided that his father must have thrown
on a log and then gone back to sleep. For, each time,
Biff saw the figure of Mr. Brewster covered by the
rubber poncho, near the pile of logs that had become
much smaller during the night. It must have been the
fourth or fifth awakening, when Biff saw someone move
into the firelight’s flicker.
It was Luiz. He crept forward. Crouched above the quiet 75
form, Luiz thrust his hand downward as if to reach into
the sleeper’s pocket.

The figure under the poncho seemed to stir. Luiz

recoiled quickly and sped his hand to his hip. Before Biff
could shout a warning, Luiz had whipped out his long
knife into sight and driven it straight down at the
helpless shape beneath him.

76
 CHAPTER IX
The Shrunken Heads

Wildly, Biff tumbled from his hammock to the soggy

ground. Coming to his hands and knees, he started
forward just as another figure sprang into the firelight,
too late to halt Luiz’s knife. The newcomer grabbed
Luiz’s shoulders and spun the little man full about. For a
moment, Luiz poised his blade as though planning to
counter the attack.

Instead, he uttered an unearthly shriek, as though he

had seen a ghost. Biff was startled, too, but his cry was
a glad one. Etched against the firelight, Biff saw his
dad’s face looking down at Luiz.

Tom Brewster himself was the man who had interrupted

Luiz’s deadly work. The figure under the poncho, Biff
realized, must be a dummy.

As the two men struggled for possession of the knife,

they kicked the dummy apart with their feet. Suddenly
Luiz managed to wrench free and dashed off into the
jungle.

Mr. Brewster didn’t bother to start after the terrified 77

guide. But Hal Whitman came rushing from the shelter
waving a revolver. Mr. Whitman fired a few wild shots in
the direction that Luiz had taken. The crackling of jungle
plants came back like echoes, indicating that the gunfire
had spurred Luiz’s mad flight.

“That’s enough, Hal,” laughed Mr. Brewster. “The fellow

is so badly scared he won’t stop running until he
reaches Serbot’s camp.”

“And the more he runs,” returned Mr. Whitman, “the

more difficulty he will have finding it in the dark. Well, if
Luiz gets lost in the jungle, he won’t talk to Serbot.”

“I don’t think it matters much, Hal. Luiz has already told

Serbot all he knows.”

“Except that we found out his game. Now he will tell

that to Serbot, too—if he finds him.”

By the flickering firelight, Biff saw his father’s face take

on a troubled expression.

“You’re right, Hal,” decided Mr. Brewster grimly. “I

hadn’t thought of that. It would be better to catch Luiz
and take him along with us. It’s probably too late now,
but it may be worth a try.” Mr. Brewster turned to
Jacome. “Call Luiz, and see if he answers.”

Jacome gave a long call: “Luiz! Luiz!” Faintly, like a

faraway echo, a voice responded: “Ajudo! Ajudo!”

In the firelight, Biff and Kamuka exchanged startled 78

glances. Both had the same sudden thought, but it was
Biff who exclaimed, “The quicksand! Luiz must have
taken the same path that we did this afternoon!”

Jacome was calling “Luiz!” again, but this time there

was no response. Mr. Brewster gave the prompt order:
“Bring lights and hurry!”

From the way the path showed in the gleam of their

flashlights, it was plain that Luiz could have followed it
rapidly in the dark, for it formed the only opening
through the brush. Biff and Kamuka, racing along beside
Jacome, were the first to reach the arch of trees above
the quicksand.

They halted there, but saw no sign of a human figure in

the muck. The glare revealed nothing but floating water
flowers until big Jacome pointed out what appeared to
be a lily pad. Biff exclaimed:

“Luiz’s hat!”

It was lying brim downward in the ooze, beyond the

bough from which Biff had rescued Kamuka. This time it
was Kamuka who scrambled along the branch and used
a big stick that Jacome tossed him to prod the
quicksand, but with no result.

From the bank, Mr. Brewster studied the scene grimly,

noting that the farther out Kamuka jabbed the stick, the
easier and deeper it went.

“That cry from Luiz was his last,” decided Mr. Brewster.
“In his flight, he must have plunged much farther than
Kamuka did this afternoon. That is why the quicksand
swallowed him much faster.”

From the bank, Jacome and other natives dragged the 79

mire with stones attached to long liana vines, but
received no answering tugs from the pulpy quicksand.
When they pushed long sticks down into the mire, they
went completely out of sight, to stay.
“There’s no reclaiming anything lost in those depths,”
Biff’s father said soberly. “That goes for Luiz, too.”

When they returned to the campsite, Mr. Brewster

dismantled the crude dummy that he had placed beside
the fire. It was formed from wads of grass, palm stalks,
and small logs, which had made it bulky enough to be
mistaken for a sleeping figure in the uncertain firelight.

“After what you told me,” Mr. Brewster said to Biff and
Kamuka, “I decided to test Luiz. I did everything but
mention Joe Nara by name. I made this dummy figure
so I could watch Luiz if he tried to steal the map he had
been told I carried. At the same time, I was guarding
my life against his treachery.”

“But, Dad!” exclaimed Biff. “Serbot never told Luiz to kill

you. He simply told him to delay our safari.”

“And to Luiz’s way of thinking,” declared Mr. Brewster,

“the simplest way of accomplishing that would be by
killing me. Here in the jungle, people think and act in
very direct terms, particularly the natives.”

Mr. Brewster and Mr. Whitman began a discussion of the 80

next steps to be taken. They agreed that the sooner the
safari moved along, the better. Mr. Brewster put a
question to Jacome.

“You have been to Piedra Del Cucuy before, Jacome.

Could you find your way there again?”

“I think so, Senhor.”

“Then you will be our guide as far as the big rock. Have
the bearers ready to move at dawn.”
Daylight was tinting the vast canopy of jungle leaves
when the safari started back toward the main trail. The
setting was somber at this early hour, but the silence
was soon broken by some scattered jungle cries. Then,
clear and sharp, came the metallic note of the bellbird.
Mr. Brewster waved the safari to a stop and said:

“Listen.”

The call was repeated. Mr. Brewster turned to Kamuka

and asked:

“What kind of bird is that? Campanero or Urubu?”

Biff smiled at the way his father used the term for
“bellbird” along with Urubu’s nickname of “vulture.” But
Kamuka kept a very serious face as he replied.

“It is Urubu. Look, Senhor. I show you why.”

He pointed to a white-feathered bird that formed a tiny

spot on the high branch of a tree.

“There is real campanero,” declared Kamuka. “He is

saying nothing. He would answer if he heard real call.”

Mr. Brewster studied the bellbird through a pair of 81

binoculars and promptly agreed with Kamuka. He
handed the glasses to Biff, who noted that the bird,
which was something like a waxwing, but larger, had an
appendage that extended from its forehead and draped
down over its bill. This ornament, jet-black in color, was
starred with tiny tufts of feathers. Mr. Brewster called it
a caruncle and explained that it was commonly seen on
various species of tropical birds noted for their ringing
cries.
But this bellbird remained silent, even when the distant
anvil sound clanged anew.

“Urubu is signaling for Luiz,” declared Mr. Brewster. “He

may wait an hour or so and try again. When Serbot
finally decides that we have moved on, he will think that
Luiz is taking us the long way. We should get a good
head start, right now.”

The safari pressed forward at a quick pace which was

maintained most of the day. The going was not as hard
as Biff had anticipated. Luiz’s talk of a tough trail had
been a sham, so that the party would be willing to take
the long route.

Even some of the streams they encountered were

already bridged with fallen trees, making crossing easy.
After one such crossing, Jacome suggested stopping to
eat. Mr. Brewster opened some canned goods, but most
of the bearers preferred bowls of coarse cereal, made
from the manioc or cassava plant. This formed their
chief diet.

Jacome gnawed on a large bone of left-over tapir meat.

When he had finished half of the meat, he suddenly
tossed the bone into the stream. Instantly, the water
flashed with silvery streaks in the shape of long, sleek
fish that fought for the bone and tore the remaining
meat to shreds.

“Piranha,” grunted Jacome. “They rip anybody who goes 82

in water. If we chop away tree, Urubu will have to stop
to build new bridge to get across.”

“Serbot might suspect something,” objected Mr.

Brewster. “If they guess that we are on the same trail
ahead of them, they will hurry. It is better to let them
think that they can take their time.”

Jacome still found time to fish for piranha during the

short rest. The cannibal fish practically leaped from the
water to take the bait. Jacome took no chances with the
sharp teeth that projected from their bulldog jaws. He
cut the lines and tossed the fish into a basket, hooks
and all. When the safari made camp at dusk, they
cooked the piranha, and the fish proved a tasty dinner,
indeed.

Mr. Brewster kept the safari at a steady pace during the

next few days in order to stay ahead of Serbot’s party.
Jacome proved an excellent guide, remembering every
landmark along the trail. One afternoon, a rain ended as
they trudged beside the bank of a sluggish stream and
Jacome pointed into the distance with the comment:

“Big rock. There.”

It was Piedra Del Cucuy, a huge, stumpy shaft of 83

granite, towering hundreds of feet above the forest. The
rock was streaked with tiny trees that looked like
sprinklings from the vast green vegetation that spread
beneath. Though the natural boundary marker was still
a day’s march away, the mere sight of it spurred on the
safari.

In the light of dawn, the big rock seemed much closer,

and within a few hours’ trek, even its cracks and
furrows showed sharply. Trails began to join, and
suddenly the trees spread as the safari emerged upon a
sandy beach lapped by the black water of the Rio
Negro.
There wasn’t a sign of a boat nor of any habitation until
Kamuka pointed to a movement in the brush, a few
hundred feet downstream. Mr. Brewster stepped
forward, spreading his arms with a wide sweep.

“If it’s Joe Nara,” Mr. Brewster told Biff, “he will
recognize us. If not, be ready to get back to shelter!”

Two figures bobbed into sight, and Biff recognized the

squatty forms of Igo and Ubi. They turned and
gestured. A few moments later they were joined by Joe
Nara. All three came forward to meet the safari. Nara
was carrying a small package under his arm.

The bearers were laying down their packs and other

equipment when Nara cried excitedly:

“We hoped it would be you, Brewster, but we weren’t

sure. The Macus have been attacking villages up and
down the river. Everywhere, we have heard the cry:
‘Macu! Macu!’ until we—”

“Hold it, Nara,” broke in Mr. Brewster. “We have more

important things to talk about first.”

The native bearers were coming forward silently, and 84

Biff realized that they were drawn by that dreaded
word, Macu. But Mr. Brewster wasn’t able to hush Joe
Nara.

“What’s more important than Macu head-hunters?” the

old man demanded. “If you don’t believe me, Brewster,
look at what I picked up downriver!”

Before Mr. Brewster could stop him, Joe Nara ripped

open the package that he carried. Under the eyes of the
native bearers who now were crowding close about him,
Nara brought out a pair of shrunken human heads,
triumphantly displaying one in each hand!

85
 CHAPTER X
Trapped by the Head-hunters

From the babble that followed, Biff realized that the

damage had been done. The bearers shied away as
though the tiny heads were alive and ready to attack
them. They made a hurried retreat toward the trail from
which the safari had come. Out of their excited chatter,
Biff could distinguish the words:

“Macu here! We go home—quick!”

Biff, meanwhile, was studying the shrunken heads in

amazement. Reduced to the size of baseballs, their
human appearance was preserved in miniature form.
Cords closed the lips, and feathered ornaments hung
from the ears of these grotesque trophies.

Though Biff had heard how head-hunters dealt with

their victims, he had thought of shrunken heads as
curios rather than as something gruesome. But here, on
a tropical riverbank, where the deadly Macus might pop
up in person, the grisly trophies were fearful things
indeed.

When Biff looked from the tiny heads in Nara’s hands to 86

the scared faces of the clustered natives, he noted a
striking similarity between them. He knew that the
natives saw it, too, each picturing himself as a head-
hunter’s prospective victim. Mr. Whitman and Jacome
were trying to quiet the wild babble but to no avail. Mr.
Brewster gestured to the shrunken heads and told Nara:

“Put those away.”

Old Joe wrapped the souvenirs with a chuckle, as

though he relished the confusion he had caused.
Jacome approached and spoke solemnly to Mr. Brewster.

“It is no good,” Jacome said. “They want pay. They want

to go back to Santa Isabel—far away from Macu.”

“What about you, Jacome?” inquired Mr. Brewster. “Do

you want to go with them?”

“I want to go, yes,” admitted Jacome, “but I want more

to stay with you. So I stay.”

Mr. Brewster turned to Kamuka. “And you, Kamuka?”

“I stay with Biff.”

“Good boy!” Biff clapped Kamuka on the shoulder. “I

knew a couple of little shrunken heads wouldn’t scare
you.”

“I have seen such heads before,” rejoined Kamuka

calmly, “but always heads of men. Never any head of a
boy. So why should heads scare me?”

Mr. Brewster paid off the bearers in Brazilian cruzeiro 87

notes, saying he would give them double if they stayed
with the safari, but there were no takers. In English, Mr.
Whitman undertoned the suggestion:
“Keep talking to them. They still may stay.”

“No, it must be voluntary,” returned Mr. Brewster, “as

with Jacome and Kamuka. Otherwise, they will desert us
later.”

The bearers hastily packed their few belongings, took a

supply of food, and started back along the trail. Mr.
Brewster remarked to Joe Nara, “Now I suppose we
shall have to go upriver in the Xanadu.”

“We can’t,” returned Nara. “We had to haul the cruiser

up on shore below the big rapids. The friendly natives
who helped were the ones who told us about the Macus
and gave us the shrunken heads. We’ve come the rest
of the way in a canoe.”

Nara paused and gestured down the riverbank.

“We hid it there,” he added, “so we could wait for you.”

“We have rubber boats in our equipment,” stated Mr.

Brewster. “We can inflate them for the trip upriver.”

“But there are many more rapids,” objected Nara, “with

no natives to help you carry the boats past them. You
will have to go overland by a back trail.”

“Where will we find new bearers?”

“From a native village a mile or so in there.” Nara

gestured to another jungle path. “I’ll send Igo and Ubi
along to introduce you.”

Mr. Brewster delegated the task of hiring the bearers to 88

Hal Whitman, who left, accompanied by Jacome and
Nara’s two Wai Wai Indians. Biff and Kamuka took a
swim in the safe water of the river. As they sat drying
themselves in the sun, the boys watched Nara describe
the route to Mr. Brewster. With a stick, old Joe drew a
wiggly line in the sand and said:

“This here is the Rio Negro. I keep going up it until I

turn east on another river.” Nara made a line that
wiggled to the right. “I don’t know its right name—if it
has any—but the natives call it—”

“Rio Del Muerte,” interposed Mr. Brewster. “The River of

Death.”

“Lew Kirby told you that, did he?”

“Yes. That’s where he said I’d find you. Somewhere up

the Rio Del Muerte.”

Nara showed a pleased smile at this new token of a

bond between his former partner, Lew Kirby, and Mr.
Brewster.

“Your trail will bring you to the Rio Del Muerte,”

resumed Nara, “but you will strike it many miles above
the mine.”

“How many miles above?”

“I wouldn’t know. I have never gone by that route. But

the native bearers will know when they reach the Rio
Del Muerte.”

“And then?”

“Then you follow it downstream until you meet me.”

“Where will that be?”

Nara eyed Mr. Brewster in quick, birdlike fashion, then 89
decided to answer the question.

“At a split rock on the north bank,” stated Nara, “They

call it La Porta Del Diablo, or the Devil’s Gate. Come
through the gateway and continue up the ravine. It
leads to El Dorado. I will meet you on the way.”

Mr. Whitman and Jacome were coming from the jungle

with a crew of natives. Mr. Brewster spoke quickly to
Nara. “Don’t show those shrunken heads to these
chaps!”

This time old Joe kept his shrunken heads out of sight.
He and his two Wai Wais left to get their canoe, and
soon the Indians were paddling up the Rio Negro. Joe
Nara was waving from between two heaps of packs and
luggage.

Mr. Brewster, meanwhile, had opened a box of trinkets

that he was distributing to create good will. Eagerly, the
natives accepted colored marbles, bright shiny beads,
little round mirrors, and other geegaws. Biff saw
Kamuka looking longingly at the eye-catching gifts and
mentioned it to his father, who promptly gave some to
the Indian boy.

Kamuka took some marbles and a mirror, but with a

slight show of reluctance. It was evident that he valued
things that were useful as well as showy. Among the
assortment, Biff found a small microscope. He handed it
to Kamuka with the comment:

“Here’s something you will really like. This glass makes 90

little things look big.” Biff held the lens above an ant
that was crawling along a dried palm leaf. “Here, see for
yourself.”
Kamuka tried the simple microscope and smiled when
he saw that the insect appeared larger.

“I like it,” he declared, “but I like mirror better, because

I can flash sunlight, like you did.”

“You can use this glass with the sun, too,” Biff said.
“Hold it close to the leaf—that’s right—now tilt it so the
sun shines through. Keep it that way and wait.”

Kamuka didn’t have to wait long. The sun’s focused rays

soon burned a hole in the leaf. Kamuka tried another
leaf with the same result. He turned to Biff and
remarked:

“With a lot of dry leaves, all in one pile, you can start
big fire with this—maybe?”

“You catch on fast, Kamuka,” complimented Biff. “Yes, a

burning glass is often used to start a fire. It’s a right
handy thing to have.”

Kamuka pocketed the microscope along with the mirror

and his other new possessions. In a serious tone, he
said, “Time to get ready for trail now.”

Biff noted that Jacome was assigning the new bearers

to their packs and other equipment.

“Yes, recess is over,” acknowledged Biff. “Let’s get our

packs and join the parade.”

The boys found, much to their relish, that they were not 91
needed as pack carriers. Mr. Whitman had hired a few
spare bearers at the village, and since this new crew
was fresh, with less than a half day’s journey before
sunset, Mr. Brewster had decided to let them take the
full load.

“You two can go ahead,” Mr. Brewster told Biff and

Kamuka. “The villagers tell me that the trail is well
marked, so you won’t miss it. But there may be short
stretches that need clearing before we come along.”

It worked out as Mr. Brewster anticipated. At a few

spots, Biff and Kamuka encountered tangled
undergrowth which they managed to hack away with
their machetes, by the time the safari caught up with
them. As they were starting ahead again, Mr. Brewster
noted the position of the sun.

“Allow about an hour,” he told the boys. “Then start

looking for a good campsite. You can wait there for us.”

Biff enjoyed the carefree, late-afternoon hike through

the vast green vault of the jungle, particularly with
Kamuka, who was quick to spot all forms of wild life.
Once, Kamuka pointed to a curious creature with a huge
shell that was moving across the trail. Biff looked just in
time to see it roll up into a solid ball and play dead.

The thing was an armadillo, the most heavily armored

denizen of the jungle. Again, Kamuka called a halt while
they watched what looked like a Teddy bear with white
legs attached to a gray, black-banded body. It was
attacking a huge anthill, darting a long, thin tongue
from its snouted muzzle. The creature was a giant
anteater, feeding on its favorite prey.

92
 Up popped a group of tawny natives

Kamuka was quick as well as accurate with the 93

machete. Once, while slashing at a low bush, he
changed the direction of his swing. The long blade
whisked within inches of Biff’s shin. As Biff sprang back,
he saw the actual target of Kamuka’s quick aim.

The machete had clipped the head from a snake which

had been rearing to strike at Biff’s leg. Pale yellow in
color, with brown, diamond-shaped spots, it somewhat
resembled a rattler, except that it had sounded no loud
warning.

“Mapepire,” defined Kamuka. “Very bad. Worse poison

than curare, like Macu use on arrows.”

Biff decided that the snake was a species of bushmaster,

one of the most deadly of tropical reptiles.

“Neat work, Kamuka,” Biff exclaimed gratefully. “You

sure were johnny-on-the-spot that time!”

“Johnny-on-the-spot,” repeated Kamuka. “What does

that mean?”

“Somebody who is around when you need them most.”

A troop of red howler monkeys were hopping from one

high tree to another, sometimes hanging on to branches
only by their tails. The boys were watching those
acrobatics, when a sudden stir occurred in the brush
around them.

Up from the bushes popped a group of tawny natives,

wearing odd-shaped aprons made of hides decorated
with bright feathers and large, dull beads. Their faces
and bodies were streaked with scarlet dye that looked
like war paint.
Some were holding bows, with arrows on drawn strings. 94
Others were raising long blowguns to their lips. All were
aimed toward a central target; the spot where Biff and
Kamuka stood.

Biff felt himself sink inwardly as he heard Kamuka gasp

the word: “Macu!”

95
 CHAPTER XI
A Sudden Surprise

Slowly, the Macu warriors closed in on the two boys.

The sharp eyes that glared from painted faces were on
the watch for even the slightest move.

Kamuka muttered to Biff, “Drop machete. Right away.”

As Kamuka let his machete fall, Biff did the same. The
inner circle of Macus dropped their own weapons and
sprang forward upon the boys.

The two were captured without a struggle. The Macus

brought out rawhide bowstrings and tied the wrists of
the prisoners behind them. They also tied their ankles
together, but in hobble fashion, far enough apart so that
they could still take short steps.

Two of their captors picked up the machetes. Another

snatched Biff’s wrist watch and tugged it loose. Next,
they were finding prizes in the pockets of the prisoners:
Biff’s scout knife and his father’s metal mirror; the
marbles and the little mirror that Kamuka had been
given earlier in the day.

Kamuka seemed indifferent to all that happened. He 96

braced his feet so that the Macus had trouble pushing
him around. Biff copied that procedure and found that it
helped. Their captors were in a hurry because all the
while, the cries of the howler monkeys were becoming
louder. Above the din, Kamuka said calmly, “If they hear
this back at the safari, they will know that we are
having trouble. They will come to help us.”

“But how will they know what is happening?”

“You will see why. Soon.”

Leaping monkeys formed dark red streaks against the

deep green of the jungle foliage. A few Macus were
guarding Biff and Kamuka. The rest spread out through
the brush, where they squatted as they had originally.
Gradually, the commotion lessened up in the treetops.
Then, as the monkeys returned to normal, the Macus
bobbed up again.

Now, their bows and blowguns were pointed upward.

The air was suddenly filled with arrows and darts that
found their marks high above. Monkeys began tumbling
from the trees, while the rest scattered, howling louder
than before. From the distance came answering chatter,
like an alarm spreading through the jungle.

“The Macu come across river to hunt monkeys,” Kamuka

told Biff. “We heard monkeys talk. I should have known
Macu were here.”

The Macus gathered up the dead monkeys and marched 97

Biff and Kamuka back along the trail. New howls were
coming from far off.

“You see?” undertoned Kamuka. “Maybe safari will hear

and come fast.”
“Or go the other way faster,” put in Biff. “Those villagers
are scared by the very thought of meeting up with
Macus.”

“But your father will come, with Mr. Whitman—”

“I only hope they won’t fall into the same trap.”

“They will not fall into trap. They will have Jacome with
them. He will be on watch.”

Biff’s hopes rose at Kamuka’s words, only to fall again

as their Macu captors turned suddenly from the trail.
Instead of trampling the side path, the Macus moved
stealthily in single file, pushing the captured boys into
the line ahead of them. They spread the jungle plants
as they moved through them, then let them fall back
into place, leaving no trace of their route.

Literally, the entire party was swallowed by the jungle.

Biff groaned loud enough for Kamuka to hear.

“Fine chance we have now!” Biff said. “They will never

find us, unless the natives know where the Macu village
is.”

“Macu never make village,” replied Kamuka. “All they do

is tear down huts that belong to other people.”

The procession was moving straight westward toward 98

the setting sun. That, at least, made sense to Biff, for it
proved that the Macus had come from across the Rio
Negro, as they usually did. Evidently they had found the
fishing poor, so had gone on a monkey hunt instead.

Soon, the procession reached the Macu camp. This was

a small natural clearing where the Macus had chopped
down a few palm trees. Women of the tribe were
sewing palm leaves together to form roofs for crude
shelters around a central fire.

While the hunters skinned monkeys for the evening

meal, other tribesmen gathered around Biff and
Kamuka, prodding them as if they were curiosities. Their
hands were finally released and they were allowed to
eat. Biff was glad that they were fed left-over fish
instead of monkey meat.

Then they were marched to two small trees. Biff’s wrists

were tied behind him around a tree, and he was allowed
to slide down to a sitting position. Kamuka was tied in
the same fashion to another tree only a few feet away.
Liana ropes were used instead of thongs, but the knots
were very tight and solid.

Other Macus tied their ankles in the same manner, so

that escape would be difficult, if not impossible. As the
Macus moved away and gathered around the slowly
dying fire, Biff saw their ruddy faces and spoke to
Kamuka.

“They sure look bloodthirsty, with their faces all done up

in war paint.”

“That is not for war,” said Kamuka. “It is for hunger. 99

They will wear the paint all night, for luck in catching
monkeys tomorrow.”

Biff and Kamuka were not too uncomfortable that night.

They slept fitfully until dawn, when the women brought
them water but offered them no food. When they were
alone again, Biff asked:
“What do you think about head-hunters now, Kamuka?
Will they let us grow up before they shrink our heads?”

“Maybe,” returned Kamuka. “Sometimes they take

prisoners for members of the tribe. But I do not want to
be Macu. I want to be johnny-on-the-spot.”

“You’re on the spot all right. We both are. If I only had

something to cut these ropes!”

“I have something Macu did not find. I have it in back

pocket where I can get it easy. Burning glass.”

Kamuka’s words roused Biff to an eager pitch.

“Get it, Kamuka!” he exclaimed. “Try to hold it into the

sunlight and turn it toward my hands.”

“But it will burn your hands—”

“Not long, it won’t. I’ll tell you when to move it and

which way to tilt it.”

Kamuka soon had the little microscope tilted toward the

sun. Biff repressed a sudden “Ouch!” and then said
calmly, “Just a little higher, Kamuka. Hold it there a
moment. No, a little more. Now, the other way—”

“I smell rope burning!” Kamuka said.

“Hold it just as it is,” urged Biff.

Soon Biff, too, could smell the burning rope. A minute 100
later, he found that the bonds yielded when he tried to
pull his wrists apart. Finally the rope broke completely,
and with one hand free Biff was able to take the
microscope and work on Kamuka’s bonds.
By now, most of the Macu hunters had left the camp,
and the few who remained were still asleep. The boys
worked on their ankle ropes, unnoticed, but found them
so tight that they had to take turns burning them.
Finally free, they realized that their biggest problem lay
ahead.

“We can’t both make a run for it at once,” whispered

Biff, “or they might wake up and spot us. You slide for
the brush first, Kamuka. If they still see me, they may
not notice that you have gone.”

“But I can’t leave you here alone, Biff.”

“You won’t be leaving me. I’ll give you time to work

around the clearing. Then if they see me start to leave,
you can raise a yell and draw them your way.”

“Very good, Biff. We try it.”

The ruse worked better than they had hoped. Kamuka

gained the edge of the clearing with ease. Biff gave him
due time to get properly posted, then followed the same
route. They had chosen it well, for it was not only the
closest edge of the clearing; it was directly toward the
rising sun, which would tend to dazzle anyone who
looked that way.

Once in the jungle, Biff kept close to the clearing as he 101

circled it, calling softly to Kamuka until they finally met.
Again, the sun proved helpful. They had been headed
toward it when they were brought here as prisoners,
late in the previous afternoon. So now, they had only to
move toward the morning sun to reach the jungle trail.

It was slow going, as they had to be wary of animals in

the brush, yet all the while they felt the urge to hurry in
case their escape had been discovered back at the Macu
camp. At last, however, they came upon the trail. Then
came the question: Which direction should they take?

“The safari must have come as far as we did,” declared

Biff, “in fact probably a lot farther, as they were
supposed to keep on coming until they overtook us.”

“But when they didn’t find us,” said Kamuka, “they must
have turned back to look.”

“You may be right,” decided Biff. “They could have

figured, too, that we missed the trail somewhere along
the line. I’ll tell you what. Let’s go back along the trail a
couple of miles anyway. If we don’t meet them, we’ll
know they are up ahead.”

“And all the time,” added Kamuka, “we keep good sharp
look for Macu!”

That final point was so important that both Biff and

Kamuka kept paying more attention to the bordering
jungle than to the trail itself. Every sound, from a bird
call to a monkey howl might mean that Macu hunters
were about. So could the slightest stir among the jungle
flowers and the banks of surrounding plants, where at
any moment, painted faces topped with wavy hair might
come popping into sight as they had the afternoon
before.

But there wasn’t a trace of motion in all that sultry 102

setting until the boys reached a place where the trail
took a short, sharp turn around the slanted trunk of a
fallen ceiba tree. Biff, in the lead, gave a quick glad cry
as he saw native bearers coming toward them, bowed
under the weight of the packs they carried.
At the head of the column strode a white-clad man
wearing a tropical helmet. At sight of him, Biff turned
and called to Kamuka:

“Here’s Mr. Whitman coming with the whole safari!

We’re safe now, Kamuka! Come on!”

With that, Biff dashed forward, only to be caught by the

shoulders and spun full about, his arm twisted in back
of him. Biff’s captor shoved him straight toward the
leader of the safari, and the boy saw for the first time
that the man in white wasn’t Mr. Whitman.

Looking down from beneath the pith helmet was the

ever-smiling face of Nicholas Serbot, tinted an unearthly
green in the subdued glow of the jungle. Over Biff’s
shoulder leered the face of his captor, Big Pepito!

103
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