  From the great central room, Joe Nara led his companions down through a maze of shafts and tunnels. Each passage joined with another, and frequently the links were steep steps worn smooth by the feet of native miners, hundreds of years before. At intervals, daylight showed through shafts that had been driven down through the mountain to tap a vein of gold. Always, the passages led finally into new corridors that glittered with rich ore. At last, a long straight tunnel brought the party out on the far side of the mountain, hundreds of feet below the starting level. The slope was gradual here, featured by dirt gullies leading down to a grassy valley, with the jungle beyond. As they followed the bed of one dry stream, Joe Nara pointed to the sparkle in its sands. “That’s where I’ve picked up some of these,” he chuckled, bringing some small gold nuggets from his pocket and displaying them in his open hand. “But mostly I find them up some of the smaller stream beds. The gold just kind of oozes out of the mountain.” Near the bottom of the slope was a shallow depression that nestled like a bowl in the curve of the mountainside. “That’s where the lake was,” declared Nara. “The lake where El Dorado used to take a dip and come out all covered with gold. It’s dried up, now, but there’s still plenty of gold down in those sands.” Mr. Brewster studied the lake bed carefully. Biff saw his father look beyond, as though following a sandy course that led down to the grassy area that fringed the jungle. “You are probably right,” Mr. Brewster told Nara. “The lake was artificially formed, and once the dam was broken, the water found its way down into the jungle.” “And it joined a stream there,” added Nara, “as I’ll show you. Do you know why this all happened?” Tilting his head, he darted one of his birdlike glances at Whitman, then back to Mr. Brewster. “I’ll tell you why. When the Indians found that the Spaniards and the English were going after El Dorado as well as after each other, they closed up shop. “That’s what they did. Just closed up shop. They busted the dam and got rid of the lake, so nobody could find it. They covered over all the shafts so nobody could find them either. They started rumors about El Dorado being somewhere else, to send all the explorers on a wild-goose chase. Then they kept guard over the real El Dorado to scare away anybody who stumbled on it by mistake.” “All quite logical,” agreed Mr. Brewster. “That is the way the Indians would act.” He turned to Whitman and asked: “You agree, don’t you, Hal?” “I agree,” nodded Whitman. “Now I know why Nara showed us those shrunken heads. He did want to scare our bearers so they would run back to Santa Isabel. But it was because his Wai Wais would have made trouble if we brought a strange tribe here.” “They made trouble enough as it was,” declared Nara, with a dry chuckle. Then, turning to Mr. Brewster, he said, “Let’s see what’s left of that map Lew Kirby gave you. Then we can figure what to do next.” Mr. Brewster produced the torn corner from the map. It showed the mine, the stream bed, the lake, and the trail that continued into the jungle, where it reached a river that was marked on the map. “The route is an easy one,” stated Nara, “as you can see. But first, I want you to estimate the value of the mine. Then pick out the ore you want, so we can take it to the river. From there, we will go downstream to the Casiquiare Canal and work our way through to the Orinoco River.” They camped that night beneath the trees that fringed the jungle. The next day, Mr. Brewster returned to the mine and studied it in detail. They stayed in the same camp another night and on the following day, the Indians brought down loads of ore that Mr. Brewster had selected. Those loads were carried several miles through the jungle to the river that Nara had mentioned. Biff and Kamuka helped make a new camp there. Then they swam in the river while they waited for the Indians to bring the packs. The water was very clear, and the boys brought up handfuls of glittering sand from the bottom. When Mr. Brewster saw it, he commented: “There’s a fortune in gold to be dredged from this stream. But we still have the problem of getting it down the Orinoco.” Joe Nara had the answer to that problem. His Indians showed up with a small flotilla of odd-looking craft that resembled the monterias of the Amazon. Nearly thirty feet long, each boat had an open cockpit at the front with a thatched cupola at the stern, serving as a sort of cabin. Nara’s boats were different, however, from the more antiquated river craft. His boats were low in the stern, so that the big steering paddle could be replaced by a sizable outboard motor. Nara had such motors and the gasoline to fuel them. “Every trip I made downriver,” explained Nara, “either over the mountain and down the Rio Negro, or down this stream to the Orinoco, I bought motors and gasoline and brought them back here. I knew that some day, Lew Kirby would talk some company into a big deal for our mine. “What’s more, I knew the first thing they would ask would be if they could transport either the gold or the ore once they mined it. My answer is, yes, and I’ve got the boats to prove it—and the motors, too. I’ve kept them for a long time.” Judging by the appearance of the motors, that was true. Some were twenty years old, but all proved serviceable when attached to the loaded boats. The four boats that formed the strange flotilla started out at a slow but steady speed down the narrow jungle river that marked the first stage of a long, adventurous journey. Each boat carried a crew of three. Biff and Kamuka were in one boat with Mr. Brewster. Jacome and a Wai Wai Indian were in another with Hal Whitman. The third boat was Nara’s, with Igo and Ubi as its crew. The fourth, which served as a kitchen boat and carried the food supply, was manned by three Wai Wai tribesmen. The packs, which included tents and other equipment, were in the boats commanded by Mr. Brewster and Mr. Whitman. The ore from the mine was mostly in Nara’s boat, which squatted lower in the water due to its added weight. But it maintained the same speed as the other craft for the simple but sufficient reason that Nara had equipped it with the largest of his old-model motors. The containers of gasoline were distributed among the boats, and all were careful not to waste any of the precious fuel. At times, they used the oars or let the current carry them. When they encountered channels that were narrow or shallow, they poled the boats through. They were deep in the jungle when the river opened into a fair-sized lake, where Nara pulled his boat alongside of Mr. Brewster’s, to check the map again. “This is one of the lagoons that connects with the Casiquiare Canal,” explained Nara. “Actually, the Casiquiare is an overflow from the Orinoco that reaches the headwaters of the Rio Negro, forming a link with the Amazon. But sometimes the canal backs up and flows the wrong way. The important thing is that it is always navigable, clear to the Orinoco.” The job now was to work from one lagoon to another, through channels that would have been shown on the missing portion of Kirby’s map. Nara knew the route from memory, and fortunately he had been over it several times. But he still had trouble picking his way through a lot of lesser channels, and at times he called upon Mr. Brewster to check the course by compass. “Taking a boat through a jungle,” declared Nara, “is just like going for a hike in the woods. First thing you know, you’re traveling in a circle. Only you don’t ever really know it, because wherever you are, it always looks the same.” The more Biff thought that over, the more true it seemed. But when he discussed it with Kamuka, the Indian boy disputed the notion. “One place is not like another,” declared Kamuka. “I look there, and I see so many trees. I remember them like picture. You show me another place, the picture is different.” “In that case,” said Biff, “I suppose you can never get lost in the jungle.” “I get lost easy,” returned Kamuka. “Too easy. Any place I do not know, I am lost—maybe. But I never get lost in the same place where I was before.” Biff decided to test that out in a simple but effective way. As they chugged along, he made notes of certain spots and told Kamuka to remember them on his own. When they reached a similar place, Biff asked Kamuka to tell him the difference. Always, Kamuka came up with some slight variation that tallied with Biff’s list. When they swung into a small cove past a jutting point with an odd overhanging tree, Biff was sure that they had seen the place before. This time, Kamuka couldn’t come up with enough differences in the scenery. Triumphantly, Biff was saying: “You see, Kamuka? This could be the same place where we were an hour ago, or enough like it so you can’t tell the difference—” “Except,” said Kamuka, “that there was no smoke in trees, no campfire with people around, no boats coming out from shore—” Biff looked up in surprise. He saw more boats, a whole batch of them, shooting out from opposite points to block off any retreat. More than a dozen in number, those boats were filled with natives who shouted savage war cries as they closed in on Nara’s flotilla, forcing the heavier boats toward the shore. There was no avoiding the camp where warlike natives waited, armed with spears, for now other canoes were darting out from hiding places to complete the rapid roundup. Rather than be boarded by the natives, Mr. Brewster ordered the boats to the shore. There, he and Whitman sprang out with loaded rifles. Biff and Kamuka followed, bringing their machetes. Jacome joined them, armed in the same fashion. Immediately, they were surrounded by a dozen silent natives, who stood ready with poised spears. “Be careful,” warned Jacome. “Do not make move. Big pot on fire is used to cook curare. Spear point poison—maybe.” Between the circling natives, Biff saw the fire and the pot that Jacome mentioned. It was a big, crude kettle, steaming over the log flames. “I’m glad they’re just cooking curare,” Biff whispered to Kamuka. “I thought maybe they were boiling some special stuff to shrink our heads.” “Maybe they do just that,” returned Kamuka solemnly. “I do not like this. Not one bit, Biff.” A tall chief with a drooping feathered headdress and a plumed belt had taken charge, and was ordering Nara and the Wai Wais from their boats. Nara’s Indians brought their machetes, but old Joe came entirely unarmed. He jabbered dialect at the feathered chief. Then, finding that he didn’t understand, Nara let Igo and Ubi take over as interpreters. After a brief talk, Nara turned to Mr. Brewster. “They are Maco Indians,” stated Nara. “They were told that we intend to attack their village.” “Macus,” Biff’s father groaned. “I knew they would catch up with us.” “Not Macus,” corrected Nara. “Macos, who live on the upper Orinoco. But they can be just as dangerous, now that they’re sure we are their enemies.” “Where did they get that idea?” asked Mr. Brewster. “From three men who stopped at their village near the Casiquiare,” explained Nara, “and told them that we would come sneaking through the backwaters to the spot where we are now.” “Serbot, Pepito, and Urubu,” Mr. Brewster decided grimly. “It must have been Pepito who stole the map in Manaus. They were unable to locate the mine on their portion of it, but they cut across our route and stirred up this tribe against us.” “What do we do now?” put in Whitman. “Give them presents and send them away happy?” “They won’t be happy unless they take us, too,” declared Nara. “They want us to accompany them to their village, so that their king can hear our story. He will decide whether we are guilty or innocent.” “That means he will either find us guilty,” observed Mr. Brewster, “or he’ll put us through some ordeal where we will come out more dead than alive. Should we make a stand for it here?” “Not a chance,” returned Nara. “Those spear tips are already poisoned. That’s why they’re boiling water, to cook up a new brew after they’ve used their spears. One false move now, and we’re goners.” From the bristling appearance of the spears and the glares of the two dozen spearmen who now surrounded the party, it looked as though Nara was right. Impatient mutters were coming from the tribesmen while the feathered chief awaited a reply. “We can’t fight them,” declared Mr. Brewster, “and we can’t go with them. What choice does that leave us?” “Only one,” replied Nara calmly. “We must convince them that we have a right to be here, more right, in fact, than they have.” He turned to Ubi and Igo and announced importantly: “Tell them who I am.” Igo and Ubi babbled in dialect with the title “El Dorado” sprinkled through it, bringing echoing exclamations of “El Dorado” from the Maco tribesmen. At the finish, Igo spoke simply to Nara: “They say they like to see you show them.” “I’ll show them!” Nara made a spreading gesture with his arms. “Tell them to clear the way to that big pot up there by the fire, and I’ll show them I’m El Dorado!” As Igo translated the statement, the Maco chief ordered his followers to clear a path, which they did. Old Joe Nara strode forward, nodding his head as though his triumph was already assured. “I hope,” said Kamuka, “that Senhor Nara can do something to help, like real El Dorado would.” “Whatever he does,” added Biff fervently, “it will have to be good, if it’s going to help at all!” |
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