  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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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! |
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