  While the others stood rooted, staring upward, Biff looked for his father, in the frantic hope of giving him some last-moment warning. Up ahead, Mr. Brewster was waving for them to join him. Biff grabbed Whitman by the arm and tried to start him forward, at the same time yelling to Kamuka and Jacome: “It’s our only chance! Maybe Dad can get us past the turn in the ravine!” They all were starting forward before Biff finished speaking, but their chance faded as the landslide’s roar increased. Spreading as it came over the cliff edge, the first wave of dirt and stone was not only peppering them; it was pouring into the side passage that seemed their only refuge. Fortunately, none of them was hit by that first spray of smaller stones. Whitman stumbled, but Jacome overtook him and helped him regain his footing. Then they had reached Mr. Brewster, who was blocking them from the side passage where Biff thought he wanted them to go. Instead, Biff’s father now was rushing them beneath the overhanging cliff, where they huddled against the rocky wall and turned to witness the havoc that they had so narrowly escaped. From this hollow, open space where Mr. Brewster had guided them, they watched tons of dirt and stone drop down in a solid curtain, only a dozen feet away, for the bulge of the cliff above was comparatively slight. Yet it jutted enough to send the tremendous landslide cascading out beyond them, something on which Mr. Brewster had counted when he made his quick decision. But after the roar had finally subsided, Biff’s father disclaimed any special credit for the rescue. “I was close enough to see that this pocket offered us our only chance,” stated Mr. Brewster. “As it was, your own prompt response saved your lives. Otherwise, you would now be under there.” Mr. Brewster gestured significantly to the mound of earth and rock that had piled many feet above their heads. Carefully, they worked their way up over it and down a long slant to the main ravine, which they followed back to the river. On the way, they looked up to the brow of the great cliff, but saw no human figures there. They noted though, that the landslide had turned the ravine into a dead-end, with no trace of the narrow passage that angled off to the right, the route that they would have taken. Back at the river, Biff’s father sat on a pack and commented rather ruefully: “I guess this about ends our quest for El Dorado.” “I’m afraid so,” Whitman agreed. “I’ve told you all along that Joe Nara was a phony.” “You mentioned a few reasons why you thought so,” reminded Mr. Brewster. “But they were hardly sufficient, Hal.” “All right,” retorted Whitman, “I’ll add a few clinchers. Nara said his men were Wai Wai Indians, didn’t he?” “That’s right.” “Well, the Wai Wais come from clear over in British Guiana, not from around here. And you remember those shrunken heads he showed us? To prove that Macus were around?” Mr. Brewster nodded. “Those were Jivaro heads,” declared Whitman, “from somewhere up the Amazon itself. Macus don’t shrink heads. All Nara wanted was to scare our bearers back to Santa Isabel and chase us off into the jungle. Right now, he’s probably still down on the Rio Negro, making a deal with Serbot, somewhere near Piedra Del Cucuy, learning what the competition has to offer—” Whitman cut off, his mouth wide open as he looked downstream. The others turned and saw a dugout canoe approaching, with Joe Nara reclining comfortably against the pack bags in its center, while Igo and Ubi were paddling him up the Rio Del Muerte. Old Joe was smiling as he stepped ashore, but he became solemn when he saw the accusing eyes that were fixed upon him. “I don’t wonder you’re annoyed,” apologized Nara. “I should have gotten here first—” “You didn’t expect us to get here at all,” Hal Whitman broke in. “Those directions of yours were a one-way ticket over the falls on the Rio Del Muerte!” “You tried to come down the river by boat?” Nara paused and stared at the rubber boats. “I didn’t know you had these with you. I said to follow the river, that was all. Remember?” “I remember,” returned Mr. Brewster. “You also told us to go up through the gateway to the ravine—” “No, I didn’t!” interrupted Nara. “I said for you to come up through—” “What would be the difference?” “Why, if you came up through,” explained Nara, “I would have been there to meet you. But if you had gone up through ahead of me”—he shook his head—“well, thank heavens, you didn’t try it!” “Why not?” “Because the tribe that guards El Dorado would have let loose a landslide if they saw strangers coming their way. I was mighty glad to find you waiting here. I knew you couldn’t have gone up through El Porto Del Diablo.” “But we did go up through.” As Joe Nara stared incredulously, Mr. Brewster described all that had happened. “Now that the ravine is blocked,” he finished, “I suppose you can’t take us to your fabulous El Dorado.” “On the contrary,” returned Nara, with a quick smile, “I can take you to the mine by the short way.” He spoke to Igo and Ubi in dialect; then, as the Indians went to the split rock, Nara announced, “I told them to summon some bearers.” Igo and Ubi shouted up through the ravine, and their calls seemed to echo back. Soon, squatty Indians appeared from the Devil’s Gateway until a dozen of them had lined silently in front of Joe Nara. Kamuka undertoned to Biff: “These are the men who pushed stones from hill.” “I figured that,” said Biff. “I wonder whether they are surprised or sorry to see us still alive.” “They are neither. They think Nara has made us live again because we are his friends. They think Nara is El Dorado.” From the furtive glances that the squatty Indians gave toward the Brewster party, along with the way they were awaiting Nara’s bidding, Biff decided that Kamuka had guessed right. At Nara’s command, the Indians did the unexpected. They began replacing the packs and other equipment in the rubber boats, while Nara suggested that Mr. Brewster and his party get on board. Then the Indians brought dugouts from the bushes, and soon they were all paddling up the Rio Del Muerte, with Nara’s canoe in the lead. The going was easy, for the current was sluggish here. After about two miles, Igo and Ubi drove Nara’s dugout to a low bank where the jungle appeared to be the thickest. With their paddles, they raised a tangle of roots as they would a curtain, and worked the boat through. The others followed into a channel wide enough to accommodate the rubber boats with ease. When the foliage had been dropped behind the final canoe, Biff looked back and saw that the mouth of this stream was as completely hidden as before. They emerged from the jungle near a towering rock that looked like the one from which the Indians had launched the landslide. They pulled up the boats beside the stream and took to a steep trail that brought them up behind the rock, past the far end of the blocked ravine. The trail climbed steadily, with more slopes rising ahead. Beyond them were mountain peaks, some looming blue and cloud-capped in the distance, overlooking a vast, unexplored region. The chunky bearers marched steadily onward, crossing logs over deep ravines and following ledges hewn in the mountainsides. Biff kept his eyes fixed on the backs of the trudging Indians to avoid any dizziness from looking below. “We are now in the Parima Mountains,” Joe Nara told them. “This part of the range is in Venezuela.” “I know,” acknowledged Mr. Brewster. “We crossed the border from Brazil soon after we left Piedra Del Cucuy.” “What about these Indians of yours?” Hal Whitman put in. “You say they are Wai Wais, Nara, but that tribe lives over in Guiana.” “The main tribe does,” returned Nara, “but this one group remained here to guard the sacred mountain, where El Dorado is located. They believed that Daipurui, the Spirit of Evil, would go on a rampage if anyone found the mine.” “And how did you get around that?” “I figured out a trick,” chuckled Nara, “that made them think I was El Dorado himself, the original Golden Boy in person. So they took Lew Kirby and me up to the mine, the same way they’re going now.” Single file, the Wai Wais were climbing steps cut in a cliff, gripping liana vines as handrails to balance the weight of their packs. As Biff began the climb, the bearers looked like big, bulging beetles crawling toward the skyline. One by one, they dropped from sight as did the others in the party. Biff learned the reason, when he reached a slanted ledge, like a niche hacked in the cliff, and found the Wai Wais squatting there. Kamuka came just behind Biff, then others of the party, and finally Joe Nara. Evidently, the Wai Wais were awaiting him, for they began an odd chant that included the words, “El Dorado—El Dorado—” and continued as the shock-haired prospector strode past them. Nara paused where the ledge burrowed at a slant into the cliff and beckoned for everyone to follow, which they did. They entered a gloomy mine shaft, so low that all members of the party had to stoop, except the boys. The Wai Wai bearers, already bending under their burdens, followed the route automatically as though the passage had been cut to their size. Daylight showed where the shaft opened into a great cavern. There, the sun shone through cracks and other openings in the ceiling. It glinted on chunky rock walls that fairly burned with vivid golden yellow. All the tales that Biff had ever heard of hidden treasure had suddenly become real. This was a wonderland of wealth, with glittering side shafts going deeper into the mountain, promising new finds for anyone who followed them. Kamuka, awed by the yellow glitter, asked in breathless tone: “How much you think this worth, Biff? A million cruzeiro—maybe?” “A lot more, if it’s gold ore,” returned Biff. “But it’s worth practically nothing if it is simply yellow quartz. A lot of that is found in Brazil, in places easier to reach than this. What’s just as bad, it may be fool’s gold.” “Fool gold? What is that?” “A mineral called pyrite,” exclaimed Biff, “usually iron, mixed with sulphur. It often fools people who think that it is gold. But it is more the color of brass than gold, and it leaves a green streak when you rub it on something smooth.” As Biff picked up a chunk of yellow rock to examine it, he caught a nod of approval from his father. Biff had repeated facts that Mr. Brewster had told him regarding metals. Now, Biff’s father indicated a stretch of rocky wall, where patches of yellow shone from a background of milky white. He asked: “What do you make of this, Biff?” “It looks like gold quartz for sure, Dad!” exclaimed Biff. “There’s no chance of mistaking that. Or is there?” “In this case, there is no mistake.” Mr. Brewster was studying the milky quartz as he spoke. “Undoubtedly, this shaft was first mined centuries ago, for it resembles old Indian mines that I have inspected. But although it yielded gold years ago, I doubt that its wealth has even begun to be tapped.” “You’re right about that,” chuckled Joe Nara, who was standing by. “Look there—and there—and there—” Nara had turned on a powerful flashlight, and with each announcement, he pointed its beam down another rough-hewn shaft that branched from the main corridor. Each time, the glare was reflected with a new burst of brilliance. “The gold of El Dorado!” boasted Nara. “A mountain full of it and a lot more that cropped over, as I’ll show you!” |
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