  With the first crackle of Nara’s rifle, Mr. Brewster shouted, “Down everybody—and get ready for them!” That, Biff knew, could be more than just a shower of spears. The warriors themselves would be arriving next, with other weapons. The only hope would be a few more pole thrusts, but while that might save some of the party, it wouldn’t help Joe Nara. It happened though, that Nara had helped himself. Those crazy shots that peppered the sandbars without coming near a canoe, unleashed a terrific force that took the native warriors by complete surprise. As they poised their spears, the sandbanks sprang into life before their eyes. Roused by the blasts of Nara’s guns and the ping of the bullets in their sandy sunning spot, the anacondas lashed their way straight downstream in a broad horde of writhing fury that seemed to stretch like a monstrous ribbon, two hundred feet in length. The stampede of mighty boa constrictors swept everything from their path. Their thick bodies and lashing coils spilled the canoes and plunged the native warriors into the canal, spears and all. The snakes didn’t stop their mad rush. They whacked natives as well as boats when they passed them and left the canoes drifting in a churn of foam that made the canal look like a rapids clear beyond the bend. Then the living tidal wave was gone as quickly as it had begun. But Mr. Brewster wasn’t waiting for the natives to reclaim their canoes and spears so as to return to action. “Back to the poles!” he ordered. “Heave away—away, everybody—and you, too, Nara!” Old Joe, his face gleaming in happy surprise at the thing he had touched off, now laid aside his rifle and helped pry the barge from its sandy perch. By the time the hostile tribesmen were wading up on the sandbars that the anacondas had left, Nara’s boat was free. Outboards roared anew as the flotilla plowed its way to the main channel and on to the junction of the Casquiare and the Orinoco, where they headed downstream. The rhythmic beat of distant tom-toms could still be heard that evening, when the motors were stopped and the boats allowed to drift down the river under a brilliant tropical moon. By morning, the drums had ceased, indicating that the Maco tribe had either given up the chase or that the flotilla was beyond the danger zone. From then on, the expedition traveled mostly by day and picked suitable campsites overnight. Biff and Kamuka fished frequently and replenished the food supply by catching huge river turtles as well as a tasty species of catfish called cajaro. Biff landed one that measured well over three feet in length. Some nights, the boats were lashed side by side and moored near river settlements where they formed what Hal Whitman termed a “floating mansion,” complete to the kitchen. At one village, Joe Nara bought stacks of huge cassava cakes. These measured two and a half feet across, but were only a half-inch thick. They had been brought upriver wrapped in plantain leaves. These formed the main food for the Wai Wais accompanying Nara, and Jacome and Kamuka liked them too, though Biff found them rather tasteless. In contrast were some cayman eggs, which the boys dug up on a sandy shore while hunting turtles with Jacome. The Indians, Kamuka included, found them tasty indeed, but they were too strong in flavor to suit Biff. Caymans were the great menace of the Orinoco, so the boys were duly warned against them. Closely resembling alligators, they were supposed to measure twenty-five feet or more in length. But when Kamuka called, “There’s a big one!” and Mr. Brewster promptly drilled it with a rifle shot, the cayman measured only twelve feet, when it was hauled on board the kitchen monteria. “When you see a creature in motion,” Mr. Brewster told the boys, “and particularly a bird, or its cousin, a reptile, you always gain an exaggerated idea of its length.” “Eggs-aggerate?” Kamuka repeated the unfamiliar term. “You mean eggs look long too?” “Not eggs-actly,” put in Biff, with a smile, “but if we’d looked much longer at those cayman eggs, they would have hatched.” Mr. Brewster smiled at the jokes, then became serious. “You must learn what it means to gauge speed in terms of distance,” he declared. “When we reach the rapids where the Ventuari flows into the Orinoco, you boys can take the boat down through.” When they reached the rapids, Mr. Brewster gave the helm to Biff, then told Kamuka to mind the bow and watch for rocks. Mr. Brewster went into the thatched cabin, but from there, he kept a sharp lookout in case the boys ran into trouble. Biff realized that his dad was standing by in case of emergency, but unless something of the sort developed, Biff knew he would be on his own. What a thrill it was! Kamuka watched like a cat, to copy any move made by Jacome and the stolid natives who were warding off rocks from the bows of the other boats. Biff kept an eager eye on Whitman, Joe Nara, and the Wai Wai who was piloting the kitchen barge. When Biff saw that they were watching the man in the bow, he did the same. Time and again, Kamuka would raise his paddle to jab at a threatening rock. Always, Biff handled the helm accordingly. Kamuka nodded his head admiringly. He was crediting Biff with being a wonderful pilot, never realizing that he was furnishing the tip-off that enabled his friend to demonstrate such skill. Twice, though, it was Kamuka’s quick work with the paddle that staved off a crash on the rocks before Biff could bring the helm about. When at last they were drifting in the calm water below the rapids, Biff sprang forward over the thatched cabin and grabbed Kamuka’s hand, exclaiming: “Great work, Kamuka! We make a perfect team!” Kamuka smiled solemnly as he repeated: “We make—perfect team.” Mr. Brewster came from the cabin and clapped a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “You do make a perfect team,” he complimented. “Just remember it.” They remembered it, several nights later, when they sat around the campfire after a cajaro dinner. “Tomorrow,” stated Mr. Brewster, “we come to the Maipures Rapids.” “Can we take the boat down through them?” queried Biff. “I mean, Kamuka and I?” “None of our boats will shoot the Maipures,” said Mr. Brewster. “They are impassable. So are the rapids of the Atures, forty miles below. A road has been built around both rapids, so that trucks can transport us with our boats.” Joe Nara gave a high-pitched snort. “That’s where Serbot will be waiting for us,” he declared. “That’s for sure.” “I’m not so sure,” put in Hal Whitman. “After he sold us out to those Indians on the Casquiare, he probably headed back the other way, down the Rio Negro.” “Not if he figured we’d be coming down the Orinoco.” Whitman and Nara both turned to Mr. Brewster, to see if he could settle the argument. As he lighted his pipe, Mr. Brewster stated calmly: “It’s about an even chance that Serbot came this way. If he did, he will probably be watching the road to see if we come through.” “That’s right,” declared Nara. “We’d better keep a sharp lookout when we reach that portage.” “Serbot may be watching for us,” agreed Mr. Brewster, “but he won’t be able to make trouble for us there.” “After what he’s already done,” argued Nara, “he might give us trouble anywhere.” When they reached Sanariapo, the tiny village at the head of the upper rapids, Biff and Kamuka noticed some natives watching Igo and Ubi carry sacks of ore up over the sloping rock between the river and the highway, where transport trucks were waiting to load the boats as well as the cargo. The boys reported this to Biff’s father, who talked with the truck drivers and learned that the hangers-on were simply hoping to pick up a few bolivars in Venezuelan money by helping load the trucks. But that didn’t satisfy Joe Nara. “If they can’t make a bolivar one way,” he argued, “they may try another. Like telling people about our gold ore.” “Here at Sanariapo,” stated Mr. Brewster, “there is no one for them to tell.” “They might pass the word along to Puerto Ayacucho, below the lower rapids,” returned Nara. “I’ll go ahead on the first truck with Igo and Ubi, so I can check on any rumors.” It took most of the day to make trucking arrangements, and to transport boats as well as cargo over the modern highway that spans the intervening streams on big steel bridges. Biff found the trip interesting, with stretches of open country and barren hills as well as wooded slopes and forested areas. The highway followed the right bank of the Orinoco, which belongs to Venezuela, while the land on the other side of the river is part of the Republic of Colombia. At Puerto Ayacucho, they found Igo and Ubi waiting to load the ore sacks into Nara’s monteria, when it arrived. But there was no sign of Nara. According to Igo and Ubi, Nara had gone somewhere immediately after arriving in Puerto Ayacucho. But Mr. Brewster, inquiring at stores, hotels, and elsewhere, was unable to find anyone who had even seen the old white-haired prospector. “The only place left,” Mr. Brewster declared, chuckling, “is the governor’s office. Maybe Joe Nara is having lunch with His Excellency. Should we try there?” “I don’t think so,” returned Hal Whitman dryly. “From the way Nara looks for trouble, we might do better if we asked at the local calaboose.” Mr. Brewster smiled at that reference to the town jail. “I’ve already asked there,” he said. Then, turning to the boys, he added, “Look around for Nara, and if you don’t have any luck, I guess we’ll have to call on the governor’s office to help us find him.” Kamuka noticed some natives lounging near an old shack on the high bank of the river. “Maybe they have seen Senhor Nara,” Kamuka said to Biff. “But you will have to ask them. They do not speak Portuguese as I do. They talk Spanish, which you understand.” When they approached the group, Biff addressed the nearest native, who was huddled by the wall, his chin buried deep in his red bandanna neckerchief and his gaze turned toward the river. “Oiga, amigo,” began Biff. “Soy buscando un viejo son pelo bianco—” Biff was saying that he was looking for an old man with white hair, but he got no further. The slouchy native came to his feet and spun about with a snarl. As Biff dropped back, he found himself staring into the vicious, hawkish face of Urubu! |
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